jJ  VERS  TY  OF  CA  RIVERSIDE 

3  1210016569582 


A  VIRGINIAN 
VILLAGE 


E.   S.  NADAL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


A  VIRGINIAN  VILLAGE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO   •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LOOTED 

LONDON   •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


A  VIRGINIAN   VILLAGE 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 


TOGETHER  WITH   SOME   AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
NOTES 


E^S^NADAL 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  rights  reserved 


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A/SLl/57 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 

BY  E.  S.  NADAL 

Set  up  and  printed.    Published  February,  IQI? 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES i 

A  VIRGINIAN  MOUNTAIN  VILLAGE 68 

SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 88 

A  HORSE-FAIR  PILGRIMAGE 100 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  LINCOLN        120 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  LOWELL 148 

LONDON  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOWELL      ....  162 

A  VIRGINIAN  JOURNEY 184 

CONTRASTS  OF  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SCENERY     .  212 

CUMBERLAND  GAP 218 

TYPES  OF  KENTUCKY  SADDLE-HORSES    ....  220 

TEXAN  SCENERY 234 

LINCOLN  AND  STANTON 246 

WASHINGTON  AND  LINCOLN 251 

LINCOLN  AND  FORESIGHT 259 

VIRGINIA  WOMEN 264 


A  VIRGINIAN  VILLAGE 


The  "Autobiographical  Notes"  in  this 
volume  are  printed  for  the  first  time.  The 
other  papers  have  appeared  in  periodicals. 
The  author  wishes  to  thank  the  editors  of 
Scribner's,  the  Century,  Harper's  and  the 
Nineteenth  Century  Magazines,  and  of  The 
Outlook,  The  Independent,  and  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  for  permission  to  reprint  them 
here. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

MY  publishers  think  that  I  should  preface  this 
book  with  some  account  of  myself.  They 
say  the  book  represents  me  as  being  in  so  many 
places  and  doing  so  many  things  that  the  effect  upon 
the  reader  is  confusing.  I  once  many  years  ago 
happened  to  open  a  copy  of  Puck  and  saw  upon  the 
editorial  page  a  poem  upon  myself.  My  name  was 
at  the  head  of  it.  It  was  written  by  the  editor,  Mr. 
H.  C.  Bunner.  The  first  three  stanzas  were  upon 
some  literary  efforts  of  mine  which  had  not  met  with 
the  poet's  approval.  The  concluding  couplet  was 
as  follows: 

Tell  us,  tell  us,  tell  us,  pray, 
Who  is  Nadal  any  way? 

It  is  this  inquiry  which  my  publishers  desire  that  I 
should  answer,  and  they  have  requested  that  the 
reply  should  take  the  form  of  a  brief  autobiographical 
sketch. 

I  was  born  in  Greenbrier  County,  Virginia.  It  was 
Virginia  when  I  was  born  there.  It  is  West  Virginia 
now  and  has  been  since  the  establishment  of  that 
state,  which  was  done  during  the  Civil  War.  It  is 
on  the  eastern  boundary  line  of  the  state  and  is 
much  more  like  old  Virginia  than  West  Virginia. 
In  population  it  is  just  like  the  Valley  of  Virginia, 
from  which  it  was  largely  peopled,  its  population 
being  chiefly  Scotch-Irish.  My  father  was  the  min- 


2  A  Virginian  Village 

ister  of  the  Methodist  Church  in  Lewisburg,  the 
county  town,  when  I  was  born  there.  He  had 
there  married  my  mother,  who  was  a  native  of  the 
county.  A  Methodist  minister  in  those  days  re 
mained  only  two  years  at  each  church,  which  ac 
counts  for  the  wandering  life  I  led  as  a  boy.  It  thus 
happened  that  I  had  lived  in  Virginia,  in  Baltimore, 
and  in  Pennsylvania,  up  to  the  time  I  was  eleven 
years  old.  My  father  then  became  a  professor  of 
English  Literature  in  a  college  at  Greencastle  in 
Indiana,  which  is  now  De  Pauw  University,  where 
he  remained  three  years,  until  I  was  fourteen.  From 
that  time  he  preached  in  Virginia,  Washington  and 
Brooklyn.  All  this  was  very  bad  for  my  schooling.  I 
was  in  the  preparatory  school  of  De  Pauw  University, 
and  was  afterwards  at  Roanoke  College,  Salem, 
Virginia,  and  at  Columbian  College,  Washington. 
I  was  a  Freshman  and  Sophomore  at  Columbia 
College,  New  York,  and  a  Junior  and  Senior  at  Yale, 
where  I  was  graduated  in  1864.  This  wandering 
life  seemed  to  suit  my  father,  if  it  was  not  good  for 
me.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  there  was  a  little 
Freshman  in  one  of  his  classes  at  De  Pauw  University, 
who  once  read  a  composition  on  "The  Elsewhere." 
The  boy's  idea  was  that,  wherever  you  were,  you 
always  wanted  to  be  somewhere  else.  That  com 
position  made  a  great  impression  on  my  father.  I 
have  often  heard  him  speak  of  it.  He  was  of  a  restless 
and  roving  disposition  himself,  which  I  have  in  some 
degree  inherited. 

The  year  after  leaving  Yale  I  taught  in  a  co 
educational  institution  on  the  Susquehanna.  After 
that  I  was  a  teacher  or  a  government  clerk  until 
1870,  when  I  was  appointed  a  secretary  of  lega- 


Autobiographical  Notes  3 

tion  in  London.  I  was  there  a  year  and  a  half  and 
then  returned  to  this  country  and  lived  in  New 
York,  where  I  was  a  writer  and  journalist  until  1877, 
when  I  was  again  appointed  to  the  London  legation. 
I  remained  at  the  London  legation  until  1884  and 
have  since  lived  in  New  York,  where  I  have  been 
a  writer  and  journalist.  For  twenty  years  past, 
however,  my  chief  occupation  has  been  with  saddle 
and  harness  horses. 

My  grandfather  came  to  this  country  from  the 
south  of  France  when  he  was  a  boy.  Of  his  people 
there  I  know  very  little.  I  have  indeed  seen  letters 
to  him  from  a  sister  of  his,  written  when  she  was  an 
elderly  woman  in  which  she  says:  "Do  you  remember 
that  when  you  ran  away  and  bade  me  'good-bye'  at 
the  end  of  the  garden,  you  promised  that,  when  you 
came  back,  you  would  bring  me  some  of  those  little 
biscuits?"  (describing  the  biscuits).  She  adds: — "I 
have  waited  forty  years  for  those  biscuits."  My 
father  was  half  a  Frenchman  by  blood,  and  I  think 
a  good  deal  more  than  that  in  mind  and  character, 
and  I  believe  he  has  transmitted  his  Gallic  traits  to  his 
children.  I  never  read  a  French  book  but  I  feel  that 
I  belong  to  that  country.  My  father  had  the  strong 
French  social  characteristics,  and  I  feel  them  in  me. 
I  have  the  consciousness  of  having  come  from  people, 
who  went  about  drinking  sugar  and  water  with  one 
another,  and  whom  you  could  not  have  kept  at  home 
with  a  ball  and  chain.  Like  every  Frenchman, 
my  father  was  a  passionate  politician.  He  was  be 
fore  the  war  an  old  line  Whig,  a  devoted  admirer  of 
Clay  and  Webster,  whose  names  he  always  spoke 
with  the  prefix  "Mr."  One  of  my  early  impressions 
is  of  his  walking  up  and  down  the  floor  of  his  study 


4  A  Virginian  Village 

weeping  at  the  time  of  the  death  of  Henry  Clay. 
No  statesman  of  that  day  was  so  loved  as  Clay. 
I  daresay  my  father  thought  Webster  the  greater 
intellect,  but  he  had  more  affection  for  Clay.  No 
one  else  quite  typified  the  idea  of  the  Union  as  Clay 
did,  not  even  Webster  or  Jackson.  Clay  was  a  bor 
der  statesman,  and  I  doubt  if  any  other  men  in  the 
country  loved  the  Union  quite  as  the  border-state 
men  did.  That  may  seem  a  queer  opinion  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  many  of  these  men  became  secessionists 
during  the  Civil  War,  but  I  believe  it  to  be  true. 
My  father  told  me  that  he  attended  the  debates  in 
the  Senate  in  1851  on  the  compromise  measures. 
His  expression  about  Webster,  when  speaking,  was 
that  he  "floundered  about  like  a  great  mass  of  mind." 
He  told  me  of  hearing  the  following  from  Clay  in 
the  Senate.  Clay  had  said  that  Mason,  of  Virginia, 
afterwards  Confederate  Agent  in  London,  had  been 
conferring  with  certain  Senators  with  intentions  un 
friendly  to  the  Union.  Mason  got  up  and  said  it 
was  true  that  he  had  been  in  consultation  with  cer 
tain  gentlemen  with  a  view  to  defending  "the  dignity, 
the  honor  and  the  welfare  of  the  South."  "And  I 
too,"  said  Clay,  "have  been  in  consultation  with 
certain  gentlemen  with  the  view  to  defending  the 
dignity,  the  honor  and  the  welfare,  not  of  the  South, 
nor  of  any  other  portion  of  the  country,  but  of  the 
whole  Union" — words  spoken  by  the  old  patriot 
with  a  passion  that  went  to  everybody's  finger  tips. 
My  father  was  never  happier  than  when  he  could 
make  Thanksgiving  or  some  other  event  an  occasion 
or  an  excuse  for  a  political  sermon.  I  saw  lately  one 
of  these  sermons  advertised  to  be  sold  at  an  auction 
at  Anderson's  in  Fortieth  Street,  New  York,  and  I 


Autobiographical  Notes  5 

went  to  the  sale  and  bid  on  it  and  had  to  pay  eight 
dollars  to  get  it,  and  I  know  it  was  not  run  up  on  me. 
It  was  delivered  in  Washington  not  long  after  the  war 
and  was  a  statement  of  a  carefully  thought  out  and 
vigorously  uttered  plan  of  Reconstruction.  My 
father  would  have  been  greatly  surprised  to  learn 
that  one  of  his  little  paper-covered  sermons  should 
bring  eight  dollars. 

Of  the  many  things  I  have  read  about  Lincoln, 
I  don't  think  anything  had  quite  such  natural  ten 
derness  as  the  sermon  which  he  preached  about  him 
in  Washington,  the  Sunday  after  Lincoln's  death. 
He  had  always  been  a  great  believer  in  him.  He  had 
had  no  personal  acquaintance  with  him  until  the  last 
year  of  the  war,  but  from  the  time  Lincoln  became 
President,  his  name  was  never  mentioned  in  our 
house  but  with  the  sincerest  respect  and  with  a  de 
gree  of  affection.  Certain  perfectly  honest  people  had 
been  calling  him  "a  fool  brayed  in  the  mortar,"  and 
"a  first-rate,  second-rate  man,"  and  there  were  other 
better  mannered  persons  of  the  superior-shallow  kind 
who,  without  using  such  strong  language,  had  a 
condescending  way  of  speaking  of  him.  But  such 
expressions  did  not  in  the  least  affect  our  way  of 
regarding  him. 

About  a  year  before  Lincoln's  death,  my  father 
became  the  clergyman  of  a  church  in  Washington 
and  while  there  got  to  know  Lincoln  well  and  became 
very  fond  of  him.  He  preached  his  sermon  about 
him  the  Sunday  morning  following  his  death,  which 
had  taken  place  on  the  previous  Friday  night.  On  ( 
that  Sunday  morning  I  suppose  there  was  scarcely 
a  pulpit  throughout  the  whole  North  in  which  the 
event  was  not  at  any  rate  spoken  of.  But  my  father 


6  A  Virginian  Village 

had  been  his  personal  friend.  The  body  of  Lincoln 
was  lying  only  a  short  distance  from  where  my  father 
was  speaking.  Some  violence  of  feeling  and  of  lan 
guage  under  the  circumstances  might  have  been 
expected  from  him,  but  this  does  not  appear  in  the 
sermon.  There  are  indeed  such  expressions  as  the 
following:  That  when  he  first  heard  the  news,  his 
feeling  was  "that  he  had  rather  the  swift  bullet  of 
the  battlefield  had  struck  down  his  first  born," — 
and  there  seems  to  be  an  involuntary  cry  of  pain  in 
this  exclamation  concerning  the  assassin:  "I  think 
of  him  only  as  some  venomous  insect  that  has  stung 
the  noble  President  to  death."  But  the  sermon  is 
in  the  main  in  a  quiet  tone  of  deep  and  tender  feeling 
and  is  a  sober  consideraton  of  the  effect  of  Lincoln's 
death  upon  the  task  of  restoration  and  pacification. 

As  we  were  two  years  at  each  church,  my  father's 
sermons  were  preached  over  again  pretty  often,  and 
we  of  the  family  got  to  know  these  sermons  well. 
I  remember  particularly  one  on  the  Transfiguration, 
which  was  very  popular.  Christ  took  with  him  into 
the  Mountain  Peter  and  James  and  John.  "John 
was  taken,"  said  my  father,  "because  he  was  the 
beloved  disciple."  Peter  was  selected  because  he  was 
one  of  those  vigorous  characters  who,  whether  for 
good  or  evil,  are  always  to  the  fore  in  human  affairs. 
But  why  should  James  have  been  selected?  My 
father  could  think  of  but  one  reason  for  the  selection 
of  James,  which  was  that  he  was  John's  brother. 
"And  my  brethren,"  he  would  continue,  "if  there 
be  nothing  strained  or  fanciful  in  this  suggestion, 
there  is  to  my  mind  something  infinitely  touching 
in  this  recognition  of  a  human  tie  by  the  incarnate 
God."  He  would  then  have  something  to  say  upon 


Autobiographical  Notes  7 

the  fraternal  relationship,  and  he  would  mention  a 
brother  of  his  own,  between  whom  and  himself  there 
was  a  strong  affection.  His  sermons  were  perhaps 
rather  more  personal  than  would  suit  the  classical 
or  conventional  idea  of  such  compositions.  In  this 
connection  he  would  quote  the  well-known  lines 
of  Goldsmith  beginning,  "Remote,  unfriended,"  giv 
ing  with  especial  feeling  the  concluding  couplet: — 

Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

He  had  a  kind  of  spirituality  and  simplicity  that  was 
Latin  rather  than  Saxon. 

My  father  was  for  a  year  the  minister  of  a  Presby 
terian  church  in  Baltimore,  during  the  illness  of  the 
regular  minister,  Dr.  Duncan,  a  preacher  noted  for 
his  eloquence.  The  people  who  had  the  pew  in 
front  of  us  were  the  Jerome  Bonapartes.  Jerome 
Bonaparte  was  the  nephew  of  the  great  Napoleon, 
being  the  son  of  his  brother  Jerome,  the  King  of 
Westphalia,  who  had  married  Miss  Patterson.  His 
resemblance  to  pictures  of  the  great  Napoleon, 
which  I  daresay  he  cultivated,  was  astonishing. 
This  church  had  separated  from  the  Presbyterian 
body  on  some  point  of  doctrine.  There  had  been  a 
contest  for  the  possession  of  the  church  between  the 
majority  of  the  congregation,  who  were  supporters 
of  Dr.  Duncan,  and  the  minority  who  opposed  him, 
and  the  dispute  between  the  two  parties  got  into  the 
courts.  William  Wirt  of  Baltimore,  one  of  the 
greatest  advocates  and  orators  in  the  country,  de 
fended  Dr.  Duncan.  Wirt,  a  man  of  imposing 
presence,  with  a  fine  voice,  in  his  argument  on  be 
half  of  the  minister,  with  an  affectionate  gesture  of 


8  A  Virginian  Village 

his  hand  in  the  direction  of  Dr.  Duncan,  repeated 
to  the  jury  the  lines  in  Macbeth  concerning  another 
Duncan,  Duncan  the  Meek. 

Besides,  this  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet  tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off. 

The  verdict  was  for  Dr.  Duncan. 

My  father  went  to  Europe  in  1853  with  T.  Bu 
chanan  Read,  a  poet  and  painter.  Read  was  a  good 
poet,  but  I  fancy  not  so  good  a  painter.  He  was  the 
author  of  "The  Wagoner  of  the  Alleghanies,"  a  poem 
about  the  Susquehanna,  of  which  I  remember  only 
these  words.  Some  scene  is  described  as  "bound 
afar  by  billowy  mountains  rolling  in  the  blue."  I  sup 
pose  Read  may  be  considered  the  poet  of  the  Sus 
quehanna.  Campbell,  of  course,  never  saw  it.  He 
wrote  also  a  beautiful  poem  "Drifting"  and  one 
better  known,  but  I  think  not  so  good,  "Sheridan's 
Ride."  They  had  rooms  in  Vigo  Street,  London, 
which  I  tried  afterwards  unsuccessfully  to  identify. 
Read  was  an  inveterate  punster.  He  was  a  friend 
of  Rossetti,  then  a  young  man  quite  unknown  to 
fame.  One  day  Rossetti  was  at  their  lodgings,  and 
he,  Read  and  my  father  were  having  some  kind  of 
hot  drink  together,  probably  hot  Scotch.  Rossetti's 
name  was  Gabriel,  his  full  name  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti.  Rossetti  complained  that  his  drink  was 
too  hot,  when  Read  said  "Gabriel,  blow  your  horn." 
Was  that  actually  said  at  the  moment,  or  did  Read 
afterwards  tell  my  father  that  he  had  thought  of 
saying  it  and  would  have  said  it,  but  refrained  from 


Autobiographical  Notes  9 

doing  so  because  he  feared  that  my  father,  as  a 
clergyman,  might  consider  the  allusion  profane?  In 
the  latter  case,  I  fear  we  cannot  credit  him  with  the 
pun  as  an  impromptu.  It  was  altogether  too  good. 
If  he  had  really  thought  of  it  at  the  moment,  he 
would  probably  have  risked  the  chances  of  my 
father's  displeasure. 

My  father  had  a  great  gift  for  speaking  to  chil 
dren.  He  made  us  a  speech  in  the  Sunday  School, 
when  he  came  back  from  his  travels  in  Europe.  I 
remember  especially  what  he  told  us  about  the  boys 
he  had  seen  fishing  in  the  London  parks.  My 
father  had  always  been  a  fisherman  and  gave  up 
fishing  only  toward  the  end  of  his  life,  because  he 
thought  it  cruel.  The  Baltimore  boys  all  fished. 
There  was  not  a  boy  in  the  Sunday  School,  who  did 
not  know  that  any  rainy  afternoon  of  a  spring  day, 
in  any  of  the  waters  running  into  the  Chesapeake, 
you  could  pull  up  a  good  string  of  sun-fish,  perch 
and  cat-fish,  in  half  an  hour.  The  little  red  or 
bright  blue  corks  were  always  bobbing.  Accord 
ingly  they  were  much  surprised  by  what  my  father 
told  them  about  the  luck  of  the  boys  who  fished  in 
the  London  parks.  He  said  he  had  never  seen  a  boy 
in  London  catch  anything,  and  he  excited  the  amuse 
ment  and  the  derision  of  his  juvenile  audience  by  de 
claring  that  a  London  boy  was  very  proud  indeed, 
when  he  went  home  after  a  day's  fishing,  to  be  able 
to  report  "not  a  decided  bite,  but  even  a  glorious 
nibble." 

The  children  of  a  minister  no  doubt  receive  from 
people  more  kindness  than  most  other  people's 
children  get.  There  were  a  number  of  people  who 
were  very  kind  to  us  when  we  were  children.  I  am 


io  A  Virginian  Village 

now  thinking  of  the  four  or  five  years  we  lived  in 
Baltimore.  Among  them  was  a  Mrs.  Jarrett  who 
rather  oddly,  for  such  a  good  Methodist  woman,  was 
the  mother  of  the  Jarrett,  a  well-known  theatrical 
manager  of  forty  years  ago,  whom  I  knew.  Mrs. 
Jarrett's  husband  had  a  store  in  Baltimore  Street. 
The  Jarretts  lived  over  this  store,  but  the  rooms 
which  I  remember  best,  and  in  which  they  chiefly 
lived,  were  back  of  the  store.  You  could  get  into 
them  from  the  store,  and  they  opened  on  a  back 
yard,  where  I  used  to  play.  These  living  rooms  on 
the  ground  floor  I  remember  as  the  home  of  kind 
ness.  Mrs.  Jarrett  was  a  large  and  rather  stout 
woman,  and  she  had  a  face  of  infinite  kindness  and 
friendliness.  Her  large,  round  countenance,  upon 
which  there  was  a  pair  of  spectacles,  looked  like  a 
deep  dish  apple  pie  and  had  a  promise  of  good  things 
to  eat.  She  gave  us  sponge  cake.  Mrs.  Jarrett 
had  a  wonderfully  clever  green  parrot,  upon  which 
she  bestowed  a  good  deal  of  that  affection  of  which 
she  had  so  much  to  give  away.  Just  behind  Mrs. 
Jarrett's  back  yard,  and,  as  I  remember  it,  about  two 
hundred  yards  away,  was  a  round  brick  shot  tower 
of  infinite  height,  higher,  I  should  say,  than  the 
Tower  of  Babel.  Everyone  remembers  the  disposi 
tion  of  childhood  to  make  pictures  of  everything. 
When  I  read  or  heard  read  in  Matthew  that  the 
Devil  had  taken  Christ  up  to  a  "pinnacle,"  where 
else,  I  thought,  could  he  have  taken  him  but  to  the 
top  of  that  shot  tower?  Nor  had  I  any  doubt  that 
when  the  colloquy  recorded  in  the  scriptures  took 
place  between  these  two  great  characters  in  the  his 
tory  of  our  Universe,  they  were  looking  over  the 
battlements  of  the  old  Baltimore  Shot  Tower,  and 


Autobiographical  Notes  1 1 

down  upon  Mrs.  Jarrett's  back  yard  and  her  green 
pollparrot  and  her  sponge  cake. 

For  two  years  I  was  sent  to  a  school  where  there 
were  about  a  hundred  girls  and  I  was  the  only  boy. 
It  was  partly  a  boarding  school,  and  the  boarders 
came  in  a  procession  to  our  church  on  Sunday  morn 
ings.  I  remember  the  first  time  my  mother  took  me 
to  see  the  master  of  this  school.  He  asked  me  what 
the  weather  was  like  at  the  North  Pole.  I  said  "  Very 
cold."  And  what  was  it  like  at  the  South  Pole?  I 
said  "Very  hot."  I  can  remember  perfectly  well  the 
laugh  that  passed  at  this  between  the  schoolmaster 
and  my  mother,  an  extremely  pretty  young  woman 
of  about  twenty-eight.  I  should  think  few  children 
of  seven  years  old  would  be  so  ignorant  as  that. 
But  I  don't  think  I  ever  had  a  very  good  head  for 
science.  I  came  across  lately  a  letter  written  by  my 
father  somewhere  about  that  time  to  my  mother. 
He  was  in  Baltimore  and  I  was  with  my  mother  in 
Virginia.  He  tells  her  that  he  has  received  a  letter 
from  me,  in  which  I  told  him  that  I  had  just  seen  for 
the  first  time  the  egg  of  a  goose  and  that  I  had  de 
scribed  it  as  "of  a  greenish  color  and  about  the  size 
of  a  crocodile's  egg," — my  father  much  amused  at 
such  parade  of  erudition  and  such  great  familiarity 
with  crocodiles'  eggs.  I  seem  not  to  have  many 
recollections  of  that  school.  I  recall  this  incident, 
however.  It  was  at  recess  and  the  hundred  girls  were 
down  in  the  garden,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
could  produce  a  sensation  by  sitting  on  the  sill  of  a 
window  on  the  top  story  (the  fourth,  or  fifth)  of 
the  house,  with  my  legs  hanging  out.  In  an  instant 
all  of  the  hundred  girls  were  in  a  great  state  of  ex 
citement  and  were  calling  frantically  to  the  teachers 


12  A  Virginian  Village 

on  the  top  floor  to  take  me  in.  A  tall  blond  young 
woman  whom  I  thought  handsome,  one  of  the 
teachers,  came  and  pulled  me  in  and  led  me  away, 
giving  me  at  the  same  time, — Oh!  unspeakable  in 
dignity! — a  spank  with  her  open  hand  on  the  seat 
of  my  trousers.  I  thought  a  great  deal  of  my  dignity; 
I  would  do  such  things  as  this,  and  yet  would  be 
greatly  offended  when  I  was  treated  as  any  other 
child  would  have  been  for  similar  offenses. 

Children  have  a  keener  sense  of  dignity  than  is 
commonly  supposed,  of  which  fact  the  following  is 
an  illustration.  My  father  had  a  great  friend,  a 
much  loved  and  respected  citizen  of  Baltimore,  Mr. 
Charles  R.  Coleman,  after  whom  my  brother  Charles 
is  named,  who  lived  in  a  part  of  Baltimore  a  good  way 
from  where  we  lived  at  this  time.  My  father  was  a 
man  of  strong  and  tenacious  friendships;  "Charley 
Coleman"  was  one  of  his  religions.  I  often  went  to 
stay  with  the  Colemans.  I  had  never  been  allowed 
to  go  there  alone,  but  was  always  taken  by  the 
Colemans  or  someone  of  our  family,  or  by  a  servant. 
One  evening  when  I  was  staying  at  the  Colemans, 
the  family  wished  to  go  to  a  prayer  meeting,  and  I 
had  to  be  disposed  of  in  some  way.  Accordingly  Mrs. 
Coleman  wanted  to  put  me  to  bed.  Now  at  home  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  being  put  to  bed  about  dark,  and, 
though  I  hated  it,  still  I  supposed  it  was  part  of  the 
necessary  order  of  things  and  acquiesced, in  it.  But 
when  I  went  off  to  pay  a  visit,  I  thought  I  should  be 
allowed  to  sit  up.  Accordingly  I  made  as  much 
resistance  to  Mrs.  Coleman's  proposition  as  I  was 
capable  of.  But  she  carried  me  upstairs  and  was 
proceeding  to  undress  me  when,  in  order  to  avoid 
the  humiliation  of  being  undressed,  I  consented  to 


Autobiographical  Notes  13 

undress  myself,  and  to  get  into  bed.  A  daring  idea 
had  occurred  to  me,  which  was  to  get  up  and  to  find 
my  way  across  Baltimore  to  our  house  as  soon  as  the 
Colemans  had  gone  to  the  prayer  meeting.  I  was  in 
a  large  four-posted  bed  in  the  big  back  room  on  the 
second  floor.  I  lay  there,  waiting  to  hear  the  front 
door  close,  when  suddenly  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  it 
was  about  half  past  six  in  the  morning,  the  room  full 
of  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  summer  morning.  I  had 
had  that  great  felicity  of  childhood,  eleven  hours  of 
solid  dreamless  sleep.  My  fell  purpose  immediately 
returned  to  my  mind  and  I  got  up  and  dressed  myself 
and  crept  downstairs  and  opened  the  front  door. 
I  was  rather  disconcerted  to  find  a  maid  servant 
washing  off  the  front  pavement  and  was  afraid  she 
might  read  the  purpose  I  had  in  mind.  So  I  gave  her 
a  wide  berth  and,  when  I  reached  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  from  which  point  of  vantage  I  knew  that 
nothing  in  petticoats  could  catch  me,  for  I  was  a 
good  runner,  I  explained  to  her  my  intention  and 
started  for  home.  They  were  at  breakfast  when  I 
arrived  home  and  I  was  at  once  a  great  hero.  In 
the  course  of  the  morning  the  Colemans  sent  over  to 
see  if  I  had  arrived.  In  the  evening  they  came  to 
see  us.  I  had  been  put  to  bed,  but  I  could  hear  their 
talk  from  my  bedroom,  as  the  doors  of  the  house  were 
open.  It  is  well  over  sixty  years  since  that  night, 
but  I  can  hear  the  laughter  of  those  people  as  if  it 
were  yesterday.  No,  not  as  if  it  were  yesterday; 
the  sounds  rather  murmur  faintly  in  some  silent 
medium  that  is  very  far  away. 

Most  little  boys  like  to  show  off,  especially  before 
girls.  Not  long  ago  I  met  in  the  billiard  room  of 
the  Century  Club  a  man  from  Baltimore  named 


14  A  Virginian  Village 

James  Reynolds.  I  asked  him  if  he  were  not  the 
Jim  Reynolds  I  used  to  go  to  school  with  in  Balti 
more.  I  found  that  he  was.  He  remembered  me  and 
said,  "You  were  a  bad  boy,"  which  I  don't  think 
I  was  at  all.  I  at  once  recalled  an  incident  about 
Jim  Reynolds.  The  school  was  kept  by  a  Mrs. 
Rozzell,  the  widow  of  a  Methodist  minister,  who 
used  to  whip  us  on  the  hand,  not  very  hard,  with  a 
razor  strop,  which  had,  I  suppose,  been  the  property 
of  her  deceased  husband.  Mrs.  RozzelPs  sister,  Miss 
Becky  Bosley,  assisted  her  with  the  school.  I  used 
to  think  that  Miss  Becky  Bosley  was  handsome. 
She  sometimes  wore  what  was  called  a  "sham," 
i.  e.,  something  like  a  man's  shirt  front.  One  morn 
ing  I  had  a  quarrel  with  Jim  Reynolds,  who  sat  next 
to  me,  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to  have  it 
out  with  him  after  school.  I  was  nine  years  old  at 
the  time.  I  was  not  a  quarrelsome  boy,  nor  fond  of 
fighting,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  attack  anybody  I 
thought  could  whip  me.  When  afternoon  school 
was  out,  I  saw  Jim  Reynolds  on  the  front  door  of  his 
house,  which  was  near  the  school.  At  the  same 
moment  there  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps 
of  a  high  stoop  house  nearby,  a  girl  perhaps  a  year 
older  than  I  was,  of  whom  I  was  somewhat  enamored, 
who  also  went  to  Mrs.  Rozzell's  school.  She  was 
rather  tall  and  large  for  her  age,  and  she  had  a  great 
profusion  of  long  dark  curls  which  came  down  her 
back.  She  wore  "paddies,"  such  as  my  sister  wore, 
which  were  linen  coverings  for  the  legs.  They  were 
much  pleated  and  had  ruffles  at  the  end,  which  came 
down  over  the  ankles.  When  I  caught  sight  of  this 
girl  and  reflected  that  she  would  be  looking  on,  I 
was  fired  with  the  ambition  to  attack  Jim  Reynolds, 


Autobiographical  Notes  15 

which  I  thought  I  could  safely  do.  It  was  a  case  of 
Helen  standing  on  the  Wall.  I  was  holding  Jim 
Reynolds  against  the  front  door  of  his  house  and 
pummeling  him,  when  his  mother,  hearing  the  noise, 
came  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  with  the  result  that 
we  fell  into  the  hall  at  her  feet,  with  me  on  top. 
She  uttered  a  cry  of  horror,  raising  her  hands  in 
consternation,  as  if  I  were  the  greatest  malefactor 
since  Cain,  which  no  doubt  at  the  moment  she 
thought  I  was,  and  I  thought  so  too.  I  don't  think 
I  scored  in  the  least  with  the  little  girl,  whose  counte 
nance  wore  a  scornful  expression,  which  plainly 
showed  what  she  thought  of  such  silliness  and  vul 
garity. 

The  following  is  an  illustration  of  the  way  in  which 
a  child's  mind  works.  "Bleak  House"  was  then 
coming  out  in  "Harper's  Magazine"  and  my  father 
and  mother  were  in  the  habit  of  speaking  of  me  as 
"Mr.  Guppy,"  because  I  was  thought  to  look  like 
Mr.  Guppy  in  the  illustrations  of  that  novel.  I 
didn't  know  who  Mr.  Guppy  was,  but  I  believed  him 
to  be  the  author  of  McGuffey's  "Second  Reader." 

My  publishers  have  asked  me  to  tell  the  reader 
how  I  came  to  be  interested  in  horses.  It  is  with 
me,  as  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  with  everybody  who 
really  likes  horses;  I  was  born  with  a  taste  for  them. 
Until  I  first  began  to  look  at  a  girl,  I  never  saw  any 
thing  but  a  horse.  The  horseman  is  born,  not  made, 
or  rather  he  is  both  born  and  made.  I  came  on  my 
mother's  side  from  people  who  made  their  living  by 
raising  horses  and  cattle.  I  never  had  anything  to 
do  with  horses  until  I  was  six  years  old.  Although 
born  in  Greenbrier,  I  was  not  there  to  stay  for  any 
length  of  time  until  I  was  six  years  old.  The  earliest 


1 6  A  Virginian  Village 

equine  impression  of  which  I  have  any  recollection 
dates  from  the  time  I  was  about  three  years  old.  It 
was  that  of  the  head  of  a  horse  looking  over  the  fence 
of  a  yard  in  Baltimore  near  our  house.  I  thought 
it  pleasant  that  a  horse  should  be  in  a  yard  of  the 
same  size  as  that  I  played  in.  I  became  much  in 
terested  in  horses  when  we  went  to  live  in  Carlisle, 
Penna.,  when  I  was  four  years  old.  My  father  was 
the  minister  of  the  Methodist  Church  there,  and 
was  also  chaplain  of  Dickinson  College,  which  is  in 
that  town.  There  was  a  U.  S.  barracks  there  in 
that  day.  The  well-known  Indian  school  was  not 
there  then.  The  Commander  of  the  barracks  was 
Colonel  May,  who  had  led  a  celebrated  Cavalry 
charge  at  the  battle  of  Resaca  de  La  Palma  during 
the  Mexican  war.  He  is  the  "dashing  May"  of 
"My  Maryland." 

With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May. 

The  war  was  at  that  time  just  over.  Opposite  our 
parsonage  there  was  a  hotel.  I  can  remember  Colo 
nel  May  carrying  me  on  his  shoulder  down  the  steps 
to  a  barroom,  which  was  underneath  the  hotel. 
He  had  a  pair  of  black  ponies,  which  he  kept  at  the 
stable  behind  the  hotel.  What  a  hold  those  ponies 
must  have  taken  of  me  is  evident  from  this  incident, 
which  is  told  by  my  Aunt  Agnes,  who  was  living 
with  us  at  that  time.  She  was  an  unmarried  sister 
of  my  mother's,  younger  than  my  mother,  and  a 
very  pretty  young  woman.  It  is  odd  that  anybody 
should  be  able  to  tell  me  incidents  about  myself 
when  I  was  four  or  five  years  old.  But  she  is  still 
living,  past  ninety  years  of  age.  She  was  much 


Autobiographical  Notes  17 

darker  than  my  mother,  and  she  says  that  when  I 
got  angry  with  her  I  would  call  her  "Black  Aggie." 
She  tells  me  that  on  one  occasion  my  mother  went 
out  and  left  her  in  charge  of  me  and  the  other  chil 
dren.  She  says  that  on  this  occasion  I  misbehaved 
and  she  slapped  me  and  I  became  very  indignant, 
and,  retreating  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  exclaimed 
in  a  highly  dramatic  manner:  "You're  black — 
you're  black  as  Colonel  May's  ponies." 

I  don't  remember  that  incident,  but  I  do  remember 
the  following.  At  the  stable  behind  the  hotel  there 
was  an  omnibus,  which  was  pulled  by  four  cream- 
colored  horses.  I  got  permission  from  my  father 
and  mother  to  have  this  omnibus  and  the  four  cream- 
colored  horses  come  to  the  house  on  a  certain  after 
noon,  with  the  understanding  that  I  should  drive 
myself.  Of  course,  it  was  a  joke  on  their  part,  but  I 
did  not  at  all  understand  that.  I  went  to  the  stable, 
in  front  of  which  a  man  was  washing  a  hind  foot  of 
one  of  the  four  horses.  He  was  squatting  on  his 
hunkers  and  had  the  horse's  foot  in  his  lap.  He  had 
a  sponge  in  his  hand,  and  a  bucket  by  the  side  of 
him.  I  told  him  to  send  the  horses  around  to  the 
house  after  dinner  and  that  it  would  not  be  neces 
sary  to  have  the  man  who  brought  the  horses  remain 
with  them,  as  I  should  drive  them.  I  can  remember 
perfectly  well  the  quizzical  expression  of  the  man's 
face,  as  he  stopped  his  work  for  a  moment  and  looked 
at  me,  still  holding  the  sponge  in  his  hand.  I  was 
in  such  a  fever  of  expectation  during  dinner  that  I 
could  not  eat  anything.  My  parents  seemed  to 
adopt  my  view  of  the  matter,  but  my  aunt  said: — 
"Don't  you  believe  them:  they're  fooling  you." 
But  I  would  not  entertain  such  an  idea  for  a  moment. 


1 8  A  Virginian  Village 

After  dinner  I  went  out  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
the  house  and  waited  for  the  omnibus,  fully  expect 
ing  that  it  would  drive  up  any  minute.  I  don't 
know  how  long  it  took  me  to  face  the  truth  that  the 
horses  were  not  coming  at  all.  A  boy  should  not  be 
treated  in  that  way.  I  think  my  disappointment 
at  the  failure  of  the  horses  to  appear  was  as  keen  as 
that  of  a  grown  man  at  failing  to  realize  some  expec 
tation  of  his.  Of  course,  it  does  not  last  quite  so 
long.  "The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed,"  says  the 
poet,  and  that  is  no  doubt  true.  But  the  disap 
pointment  is  as  keen  while  it  lasts. 

One  of  the  most  important  of  the  dramatis  per 
sona  of  our  household  was  Susie.  She  was  with  us 
from  first  to  last  not  far  from  seventy  years.  She 
came  to  us  as  a  girl  of  perhaps  sixteen  when  my 
brother,  next  younger  than  myself,  was  a  few  months 
old,  and  remained  with  us  until  her  death  a  few 
years  ago,  at  eighty-six.  She  could  never  get  away 
from  us.  There  was  always  a  new  baby  to  enchain 
and  fix  her  affections  anew,  and  the  succession  con 
tinued  until  there  had  been  nine  of  them.  Nor 
did  any  of  us  lose  our  hold  upon  her.  She  was 
fonder  of  me,  for  instance,  when  I  was  near  seventy, 
than  she  had  been  when  I  was  a  child.  I  was  the 
only  child  who  had  not  been  through  her  hands,  and 
was  thus  always  at  a  little  disadvantage  with  her  as 
compared  to  the  others.  She  got  no  pay,  but  simply 
continued  to  live  with  us.  She  must  have  had  a 
great  influence  upon  us  all.  Her  opinion  upon  the 
simplest  matters  always  very  much  impressed  me,  I 
know.  I  remember  her  once  walking  out  with  me 
in  Carlisle,  Pa.,  when  I  was  four  or  five  years  old, 
and  we  saw  a  boy  on  stilts.  She  said  that  she  did 


Autobiographical  Notes  19 

not  approve  of  stilts,  because  they  were  an  intima 
tion  to  the  Almighty  that  those  old  wooden  legs 
were  better  than  the  flesh  ones  with  which  he  had 
provided  us.  That  made  a  great  impression  upon 
me,  and  even  now  I  cannot  see  a  boy  on  stilts — one 
does  still  see  it  sometimes  though  rarely — without 
a  feeling  that  there  is  an  impiety  and  a  profanity  in 
the  action.  It  was  to  her  we  always  had  recourse 
when  we  were  in  any  kind  of  trouble  and  we  never 
got  over  the  habit.  Once  in  a  London  lodging  house 
when  about  to  start  upon  a  journey,  I  being  a  grown 
man  at  the  time,  a  cab  was  at  the  door  and  I  was  late 
for  a  train.  I  was  packing  a  portmanteau  and  in 
great  distress  of  mind,  because  I  was  unable  to  find 
some  necessary  article  of  dress.  I  went  to  the  top 
of  the  stairs  and  shouted  her  name  in  a  loud  voice, 
although  she  was  three  thousand  miles  away,  and  I 
had  not  seen  her  in  years. 

She  could  not  read  or  write,  but  you  would 
rarely  meet  with  anyone  whose  conversation  was 
more  marked  by  good  sense,  judgment  and  humor 
than  hers  was.  It  was  not  only  when  she  spoke  of 
family  matters  that  this  was  true,  but  when  she  spoke 
of  other  subjects  as  well. 

A  sister  of  mine  met  in  California  an  old  friend 
of  ours,  Charles  Nordhoff.  Nordhoff  had  lived  next 
door  to  us  in  Indiana,  and  thus  had  had  a  good 
opportunity  of  observing  Susie.  He  wished  to  know 
if  she  were  still  living,  and  being  a  Methodist,  and 
familiar  with  the  phraseology  of  that  denomination, 
asked:  "Has  Susie  yet  taken  her  place  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  Throne?" 

In  the  spring  of  1854  we  went  to  Greenbrier  Co., 
Va.,  for  the  summer.  We  spent  the  summer  with 


2O  A  Virginian  Village 

my  grandmother.  There  was  a  yard  of  perhaps  an 
acre  about  her  house,  with  a  garden  back  of  that. 
I  was  confined  to  this  yard,  in  which  there  was 
an  apple  tree  with  the  branches,  or  rather  with  the 
twigs,  of  which  I  was  occasionally  switched.  It 
was  just  as  well  that  I  was  kept  there,  for  my  cous 
ins,  who  could  run  about  as  they  pleased,  were  pretty 
bad  little  boys;  their  illicit  relations  with  the  colored 
girls  began  at  an  early  age.  The  characters  of  that 
house,  besides  my  mother  and  my  brother  and 
sisters,  and  Susie,  who  of  course  was  with  us,  were  my 
grandmother  and  my  mother's  unmarried  sister  and 
their  black  mammy,  Aunt  Harriet,  and  her  numerous 
children,  and  her  husband,  Uncle  Davie,  who  was  a 
shoemaker  and  did  not  belong  to  my  grandmother, 
but  to  a  cousin  of  ours.  Harriet's  daughter,  Betty, 
a  good-looking  mulatto  girl  about  17,  had  just  had 
a  baby.  After  the  birth  of  her  child,  she  became 
temporarily  insane,  as  sometimes  happens  after 
childbirth.  I  remember  this  incident,  which  will 
give  an  idea  of  what  slavery  was  with  us.  Betty 
was  in  bed  in  a  room  in  the  basement  of  the  house — a 
small  boy  will  stick  himself  anywhere  with  impunity 
— and  my  uncle,  who  was  a  doctor,  was  sitting  on 
the  side  of  the  bed  and  trying  to  do  something  with 
her  hands.  She  was  quite  out  of  her  head  and  she 
fought  with  him.  He  was  an  irascible  person,  and 
he  struck  her  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  a  very 
slight  tap,  which  could  not  have  hurt  her  in  the 
least.  Aunt  Harriet,  her  mother,  was  standing  by, 
and  said,  "That  won't  do,  you  mustn't  do  that." 
Betty  was  before  long  able  to  sit  out  in  the  yard  in 
a  chair,  although  she  still  continued  insane.  Teasing 
her  was  one  of  the  few  means  by  which  I  was  able 


Autobiographical  Notes  21 

to  support  the  intolerable  boredom  of  confinement 
within  the  precincts  of  that  yard.  I  had  always 
been  good  at  throwing  stones.  Never  a  bit  fond  of 
actual  fisticuffs,  I  could  throw  stones  with  any  boy 
and  was  very  good  at  dodging  the  stones  that  were 
thrown  at  me.  Of  course  I  was  not  such  a  little 
beast  as  to  throw  stones  at  Betty,  but  I  would  tease 
her  until  she  would  throw  them  at  me.  It  was  as 
tonishing  the  way  that  girl  could  throw.  I  am  quite 
sure  she  could  not  have  thrown  in  that  way  if  she 
had  been  in  her  right  senses.  A  girl  will  usually 
hold  her  arm  vertically  over  her  head,  when  she 
throws,  and  will  often  jump  up  at  the  same  time. 
Betty  did  not  do  that  at  all,  but  remained  on  the 
ground  and  threw  with  a  horizontal  arm.  The 
stones  described  no  parabolas  but  would  whiz  past 
my  ears  in  a  perfectly  straight  line.  Clever  as  I  was 
at  dodging  and  ducking,  it  required  all  the  skill  I 
had  acquired  in  stone  battles  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  those  projectiles. 

There  was  one  other  way  of  amusing  myself,  but 
that  resource  I  had  only  on  court  days.  On  court 
days  the  farmers  would  tie  their  horses  to  the  fence 
at  the  end  of  my  grandmother's  garden,  which  was  on 
a  hill  above  the  village.  As  soon  as  the  owners  of 
the  horses  were  out  of  sight,  I  would  mount  the  ani 
mals,  one  by  one,  and  ride  them  up  and  down  the 
back  lane.  I  rode  all  sorts.  Sometimes  it  would 
be  a  mare  followed  by  a  colt,  sometimes  a  mule  and 
sometimes  a  half-broken  filly,  but  I  never  got  kicked 
or  thrown  or  run  away  with.  It  is  rarely  that  any 
thing  happens  to  a  boy. 

There  was  an  old  negro  woman  whom  my  grand 
father  had  bought  for  some  very  small  price  out  of  a 


22  A  Virginian  Village 

drove  of  slaves  that  came  through  our  village.  He 
pitied  the  wretched  condition  of  the  poor  woman 
and  bought  her  chiefly  to  give  her  a  home.  She 
turned  out  a  wonderful  cook.  That  is,  she  could  cook, 
if  she  would,  but  she  didn't  always  choose  to  do  her 
best.  She  was  very  jealous  of  Aunt  Harriet.  She 
used  to  call  her  our  "lady."  If  she  was  asked  to  do 
anything  and  didn't  happen  to  be  in  a  humor  for  it, 
she  would  say: — "Get  your  leddy  to  do  it." 

I  had  three  great-uncles  in  Greenbrier,  who,  start 
ing  with  little  or  nothing,  accumulated,  it  was  said, 
$100,000  to  $300,000,  which  was  before  the  war  a 
good  deal  of  money  anywhere  in  the  country,  and 
was  certainly  a  great  deal  to  be  got  out  of,  or  rather 
off,  the  ground,  for  they  were  graziers  and  stockmen 
rather  than  farmers.  The  one  I  remember  best  was 
my  Uncle  Sam  who  was  known  in  the  county  as  the 
Colonel;  he  was  a  colonel  of  militia  I  believe,  Col. 
Sam  McClung,  he  was  called.  He  had  prodigious 
farms  in  the  Richlands,  a  verdant  circular  valley 
of  rolling  blue-grass  pasture,  six  miles  across,  just 
west  of  the  village,  which  is  seen  to  best  advantage 
late  in  the  day,  when  it  appears,  with  the  grave  light 
of  approaching  sundown  upon  it,  as  a  big  green  stain, 
surrounded  by  mountains.  It  is  sometimes  called 
the  Big  Levels  to  distinguish  it  from  the  Little  Levels, 
a  smaller  valley  in  Pocahontas,  the  county  north  of 
us.  But  I  remember  him  chiefly  because  he  was  so 
good  to  boys.  He  used  to  keep  the  black  sheep 
skins  for  us  to  ride  on.  One  of  these,  strapped  on 
with  a  surcingle,  made  a  comfortable  saddle  for  a  boy. 
He  was  an  elder  in  the  Presbyterian  Church,  but  he 
did  not  mind  doing  anybody  in  a  horse  trade  and 
telling  about  it  afterwards.  My  grandmother's 


Autobiographical  Notes  23 

family — he  was  her  brother — were  noted  horse  trad 
ers.  I  went  into  a  drug  store  once  in  Staunton, 
which  is  a  hundred  miles  from  Greenbrier,  and  found 
that  the  druggist,  who  was  himself  a  horseman, 
knew  all  about  the  McClungs.  He  began  speaking 
of  Greenbrier,  and  said  that  there  was  in  the  western 
part  of  that  county  a  family  of  the  name  of  McClung, 
who  were  wonderful  horse  traders.  (I  had  not  told 
him  that  I  was  one  of  them.)  He  said  that  a  friend 
of  his,  who  rather  fancied  himself  as  a  horse  trader, 
wanted  to  try  what  he  could  do  with  the  McClungs, 
of  whom  he  had  heard  a  great  deal.  Accordingly 
he  went  to  the  White  Sulphur  Springs,  which  is  the 
eastern  part  of  the  county,  taking  with  him  a 
thoroughbred  mare.  He  got  on  his  mare  and  started 
westward  for  the  McClung  country  and  began 
trading.  He  was  gone  for  two  or  three  weeks.  When 
he  found  himself  back  at  the  White  Sulphur,  he  had 
his  old  horse  back,  he  had  lost  one  horse,  and  he  was 
two  hundred  dollars  to  the  bad.  My  Uncle  Sam  was 
an  adept  at  this  business.  He  thought  it  an  under 
stood  game  of  skill. 

In  1854  when  I  was  eleven  years  old  my  father 
was  appointed  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  a 
college  in  Indiana.  He  was  extremely  well  suited 
for  this  work.  He  was  not  in  the  least  like  a  modern 
instructor  in  English;  he  knew  nothing  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  Italian;  but  he  knew  English  literature, 
especially  English  poetry,  very  well,  and  he  had  a 
good  knowledge  of  German  and  of  German  literature, 
and  he  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  really  love 
poetry.  By  means  of  his  strong  social  qualities  he 
was  able  to  make  his  interest  in  literature  contagious. 
He  was  on  that  account  a  very  successful  teacher. 


24  A  Virginian  Village 

I  have  a  notion  that  he  had  some  claim  to  be  con 
sidered  a  founder  of  what  is  known  as  the  "Indiana 
School."  He  was  extremely  sympathetic;  with 
plenty  of  discrimination  and  without  being  at  all 
gullible  or  over-impressible,  he  was  eager  to  per 
ceive,  and  quick  to  respond  to,  indications  of  ability 
and  intelligence  in  his  students.  Such  a  quality 
in  an  instructor  is  extremely  delightful  to  a  young 
fellow  and  very  encouraging.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
important  qualities  a  teacher  can  have.  He  should 
be  the  discoverer  of  the  qualities  of  the  young  men 
under  him,  instead  of  being,  as  I  believe  he  often  is, 
occupied  chiefly  with  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
surprising  genius. 

My  father  had  in  those  boys  an  eager  lot  of  schol 
ars.  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  seen  such  an  eager  lot 
of  youths  as  they  were.  The  middle  west,  as  it  is  now 
called,  was  then  just  beginning  to  come  to  itself. 
A  generation  or  two  earlier  the  people  had  left  the 
hard-favored  farms  of  the  Eastern  states  and  had 
travelled  westward  until  they  found  a  country 
which  could  produce  eighty  bushels  of  corn  and  thirty 
bushels  of  wheat  to  the  acre.  That  was  true  of  cer 
tain  parts  of  Indiana  and  truer  still  of  Illinois.  If 
the  reader  has  ever  attended  any  of  the  Old  Settlers' 
Days  of  that  country  he  must  have  heard  the  old 
men,  who  could  remember  that  immigration,  tell 
as  specimens  of  the  tales  told  them  in  the  east  about 
the  fertility  of  the  western  lands  stories,  many  of 
which,  though  they  were  not  aware  of  it,  may  be 
found  in  Munchausen.  This  would  be  one  of  them. 
A  new-comer  to  the  country  planted  a  cucumber 
seed,  which,  before  he  could  get  away,  sprouted  and 
wound  itself  around  his  leg.  The  man  put  his  hand 


Autobiographical  Notes  25 

in  his  pocket  to  get  a  knife  to  cut  himself  loose  and 
found  there  a  cucumber  gone  to  seed.  Regarding  the 
mud  which  the  rains  made  in  the  deep  black  loam 
of  the  prairies,  it  was  said  that  a  man  saw  a  hat  in 
the  road  and  picking  it  up,  found  a  man's  head 
under  it;  he  asked  the  man  what  he  could  do  for  him, 
but  the  man  said  he  was  all  right,  that  he  had  a  good 
horse  under  him.  The  late  R.  R.  Hitt  told  me  that 
he  had  known  a  mule  to  be  drowned  in  a  mud  puddle 
in  Springfield,  111.  I  have  heard  old  settlers,  speak 
ing  of  the  farms  they  had  left  in  the  east  say  that 
these  farms,  which  were  often  nearly  at  right  angles 
to  the  horizon,  had  this  advantage,  that  when  you 
had  plowed  a  field  on  one  side,  you  could  turn  it 
over  and  plow  it  on  the  other. 

After  a  generation  or  two  spent  in  this  new  coun 
try,  the  girls  began  to  take  music  lessons  and  the  boys 
to  go  to  college.  That  was  what  they  were  doing  in 
the  three  years,  from  1854  to  1857,  when  I  lived 
there.  Lately  in  reading  John  Hay's  life,  who  was 
one  of  these  prairie  boys,  I  was  much  struck  by  his 
resemblance  to  the  youths  I  had  known  in  that  coun 
try  in  the  fifties.  How  keen  he  was,  not  only  for 
fame  and  external  success,  but  to  make  the  most  of 
himself  in  every  way,  in  culture,  in  manners  and  ac 
complishments.  He  had  the  eagerness  and  the  ar 
dor  of  those  boys  whom  I  knew  and  who  were  the 
products  of  that  renaissance  of  hog  and  hominy  of 
which  Hay  was  a  result,  and  from  which  I  profited 
to  some  extent.  I  wish  Hay  had  given  us  some  ac 
count  of  those  boys  and  girls  at  Warsaw  with  whom 
he  was  brought  up.  I  have  no  doubt  they  were 
much  like  the  young  men  and  women  I  knew.  War 
saw  was  on  the  river,  and  it  was  said  that  the  soil 


26  A  Virginian  Village 

of  the  river  bottoms  was  forty  feet  deep.  Of  course 
that  meant  wealth  and  music  lessons  and  college 
educations.  A  number  of  these  pupils  of  my  father 
came  to  be  pretty  well  known  afterwards.  One  of 
them,  I  think,  was  Edward  Eggleston,  the  writer. 
Another  was  R.  R.  Hitt,  the  diplomatist  and  mem 
ber  of  Congress  who  was  the  son  of  a  Methodist 
minister.  Another  was  Springer,  whom  I  well 
remember,  and  who  was  the  leader  of  the  Demo 
cratic  Minority  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  and 
in  that  capacity  was  such  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Czar 
Reed,  the  autocratic  Speaker.  He  was  a  little  fel 
low,  in  odd  physical  contrast  to  the  gigantic  Reed. 
He  had  parliamentary  practice  at  his  fingers'  ends 
and  was  a  source  of  infinite  bother  to  Reed.  When 
the  Spanish  dancer,  Carmencita,  was  in  New  York, 
it  was  the  custom  to  have  her  dance  at  the  studios 
of  artists  about  midnight,  after  her  performances  at 
Coster  &  Bial's  were  over.  Reed  attended  one  of 
these  .parties  and  was  asked  what  he  thought  of  her 
and  replied: — "I  like  her  very  much;  I  prefer  her 
to  the  Congressional  Springer." 

These  young  men  were  very  fond  of  my  father,  as 
indeed  were  all  the  people  connected  with  the  college. 
At  an  alumni  supper  his  health  was  proposed  as 
follows : 

If  Webster  and  Worcester  in  battle  should  fall, 
We'll  drop  all  discussion  and  appeal  to  Nadal. 

I  have  a  gold-headed  cane  which  the  young  men  gave 
him  when  he  left,  on  which  are  inscribed  these 
words: — "Presented  to  Professor  B.  H.  Nadal  by 
his  students  as  a  token  of  respect."  It  is  a  pretty 


Autobiographical  Notes  27 

smart-looking  stick  still  and  when  I  wish  to  be  fine, 
I  like  to  have  it  in  my  hand,  perhaps  from  a  feeling 
that  it  brings  me  luck.  I  lately  showed  it  to  a  jeweller 
and  asked  him  the  value  of  it.  He  said  that  the 
value  of  it,  when  it  was  made,  which  was  in  1857, 
would  have  been  about  fifty  dollars.  As  some  of 
those  boys  were  living  on  about  a  dollar  a  week, 
fifty  dollars  was  a  great  deal  for  the  students  to 
pay. 

I  think  children  suffer  a  great  deal  from  ennui. 
Boys  of  from  twelve  to  fourteen  suffer  especially 
from  it.  When  I  was  thirteen  years  of  age,  we  were 
still  living  in  Indiana.  We  had  a  little  place  of 
fifteen  acres,  which  was  on  the  outskirts  of  a  village. 
There  was  some  pretty  woodland  and  a  peach  or 
chard,  of  which  the  yield  was  prodigious,  and  a  field, 
which  we  usually  had  in  corn.  But  my  associations 
with  the  place  chiefly  concern  a  yard  and  garden, 
which  were  near  the  house.  In  the  summer  vaca 
tions  what  was  there  for  a  boy  to  do?  At  least  I 
had  trouble  in  finding  anything  to  do.  I  would  get 
so  bored  that  I  would  poke  with  a  stick  down  into  a 
bumble  bee's  nest,  which  was  under  a  stump  on  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  until  the  bees  would  come  out  and 
pursue  me.  They  would  get  in  under  my  collar  or 
in  my  pockets  or  up  my  legs  under  my  trousers. 
Then  if  for  some  minutes  I  suffered,  it  was  not  from 
ennui.  One  distraction  was  to  arrange  a  battle 
between  two  cocks  in  our  back  yard  under  these 
circumstances.  We  had  a  yellow  cock,  who  had  been 
lord  of  the  barnyard  until  we  got  a  big  red  Shanghai. 
The  big  Shanghai  quickly  put  the  yellow  cock  to 
flight.  At  almost  any  hour  you  could  see  him  chas 
ing  the  yellow  rooster  about  the  place.  I  would 


28  A  Virginian  Village 

catch  the  yellow  cock  and  take  him  to  the  top  of 
a  little  hill  near  the  hen  house  and  hold  him  there. 
The  big  Shanghai,  amazed  and  enraged  to  see  the 
little  fellow  apparently  holding  his  ground,  would 
charge  up  the  hill  at  him.  I  would  put  my  foot 
under  the  Shanghai  and  give  him  a  toss,  and  he 
would  roll  down  the  hill.  Very  much  astonished 
he  would  get  up  and  indulge  in  a  moment's  reflec 
tion.  It  was  surprising  that  anything  so  small 
as  the  eye  and  head  of  a  chicken  could  express  so 
much  thought.  "Could  that  dirty  little  yellow 
rooster  have  done  that?"  But  as  soon  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  yellow  cock  still  held  by  me  at  the  top 
of  the  little  hill,  he  would,  in  a  sudden  access  of 
rage,  charge  up  the  hill,  to  be  rolled  down  again 
in  the  same  manner.  Once  when  I  was  so  employed, 
the  Shanghai  struck  me  on  the  cap  of  my  knee  with 
his  spur,  which  may  have  been  poisonous,  and  I  was 
lame  for  some  days  in  consequence. 

I  got  some  amusement  from  teasing  a  certain 
yellow  hen.  This  hen  had  a  history.  One  night  an 
opossum  got  into  our  hen  house  and,  besides  com 
mitting  other  depredations,  ate  off  the  hinder  part 
of  this  hen,  that  is,  all  back  of  her  legs.  My  father 
heard  the  noise  in  the  hen  house  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  got  up,  and  going  to  the  hen  house,  hit  the 
opossum  on  the  head  with  a  stick,  and  he  rolled  over 
as  if  dead.  My  father  should  have  known  better, 
but  he  really  thought  he  was  dead,  and  left  the  hen 
house  for  a  minute.  When  he  returned  the  opossum 
was  gone.  This  hen  recovered,  and  raised  many 
broods  of  chickens  and  lived  long  afterwards,  but 
with  a  disposition  hopelessly  soured.  As  a  result 
of  the  calamity  from  which  she  had  suffered,  she  had 


Autobiographical  Notes  29 

a  curious  bobtailed  expression,  which  was  in  itself 
ill-tempered  and  of  sinister  and  evil  import.  If  you 
came  anywhere  near  her  chickens,  she  would  fly  right 
in  your  face.  She  could  fly  a  hundred  yards,  mount 
ing  in  the  air  like  any  other  bird. 

I  had  a  double-barrelled  shotgun  out  of  which  I  got 
a  certain  amount  of  amusement.  It  was  too  heavy  for 
me,  however.  It  was  all  right  when  I  could  get  a  rest 
over  a  stump  or  a  fence  rail,  but  when  I  did  not  have 
this  advantage,  I  would  raise  the  gun  above  the  mark 
I  wished  to  hit  and  let  it  drop  gradually  until  I 
judged  the  barrel  to  be  in  line  with  the  mark,  when 
I  would  pull  the  trigger,  so  that  if  the  bird  was  not 
on  the  wing,  the  gun  was.  A  red-headed  woodpecker, 
or  a  yellow-hammer  on  the  side  of  a  tree,  made  a 
pretty  mark.  I  was  very  ambitious  to  shoot  a  squir 
rel,  but  I  shot  many  woodpeckers  and  meadow 
larks  before  I  got  one.  My  first  squirrel  I  got  in  this 
way.  I  was  out  with  another  boy  shooting,  when  he 
shot  a  squirrel  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  had  a  charge 
left  in  my  gun  and  on  the  way  home  I  put  the  dead 
squirrel  on  a  fence  and  fired  the  charge  into  it  and 
told  them  at  home  that  I  had  shot  it. 

We  had  some  sweet  corn  for  roasting  in  our  garden. 
The  cows  would  sometimes  throw  down  the  fence 
rails  and  get  in  and  eat  the  corn.  Somebody  said 
that  one  way  to  cure  the  cows  of  this  habit  was  to 
drive  them  up  to  the  place  in  the  fence  where  they 
had  broken  through  and  shoot  them  with  dried 
kernels  of  corn.  My  father  said  that  I  might  do  this, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  a  cruel  little  boy,  hard  put 
to  to  amuse  himself,  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of 
this  suggestion.  It  was  delightful  to  see  the  antics 
of  the  cows  when  they  were  peppered  with  the  corn 


30  A  Virginian  Village 

from  the  double-barrelled  shotgun.  I  was  once  in 
the  kitchen  loading  the  gun  with  the  corn,  when  one 
of  the  barrels  went  off.  At  this  my  brother  next 
younger  to  myself,  who  was  standing  near  the  mouth 
of  the  gun,  clapped  his  hands  on  his  stomach  and 
ran  out  of  the  kitchen.  I  supposed  I  had  fired  the 
whole  charge  into  him,  and  I  started  in  pursuit  of 
him.  He  was  an  uncommonly  active  dead  boy,  for 
I  had  to  chase  him  almost  twice  around  the  house 
before  I  could  catch  him.  He  was  not  hurt,  or  at 
any  rate  not  badly  hurt.  I  suppose  the  charge  had 
struck  the  wall  and  had  rebounded  against  him  and 
stung  him. 

In  Indiana  I  became  a  strong  Republican.  The 
Republicans  of  that  day  were  a  happy  lot  of  people; 
they  had  such  a  consciousness  of  virtue.  I  believe 
I  thought  that  all  Republicans  were  good,  and  I  was 
not  far  from  thinking  that  all  Democrats  were  bad. 
The  word  "Republican,"  as  I  saw  it  on  the  printed 
page,  looked  decent  and  superior.  There  was  on  the 
other  hand  something  wicked  in  the  appearance  of 
the  word  "Democrat."  That  "D"  and  the  "cr" 
had  a  sinister  look.  That  had  certainly  not  been  the 
feeling  of  the  Democrats  of  Jackson's  time.  I  have 
heard,  when  a  boy,  from  older  men  who  had  been 
Democrats  in  their  young  days  what  a  consciousness 
of  virtue  they  then  had.  They  thought  they  were 
more  honest  than  other  men.  That  was  the  notion 
of  Jackson  himself.  When  it  was  said  in  Jack 
son's  company  on  one  occasion  that  some  foreign 
visitor  to  this  country  had  remarked  that  all  the 
culture  and  refinement  in  the  country  seemed  to  be 
on  the  side  of  the  Whigs,  Jackson  said,  "You  should 
have  told  him  that  all  the  virtue  and  honesty  in  the 


Autobiographical  Notes  31 

country  were  upon  our  side."  In  the  years  from 
1856  to  1861,  we  thought  that  all  the  good  qualities 
were  on  the  side  of  the  Republicans.  I  remember  how 
surprised  I  was  to  read  that  a  Republican  member  of 
Congress,  whom  I  believed  to  be  both  handsome  and 
good,  had  done  something  wrong.  I  thought  all 
Republican  leaders  were  good  looking.  The  photo 
graph  of  Sumner,  which  after  the  Brooks  assault 
went  all  over  the  country,  was  our  notion  of  the  way 
a  Republican  looked.  I  once  heard  a  man  say  to  a 
person  of  benevolent  and  prepossessing  appearance: 
"What  a  head  you've  got  for  a  philanthropist  to  walk 
through  Five  Points  with."  I  thought  all  Republicans 
looked  like  that. 

I  have  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  two  cam 
paign  celebrations  in  1856.  They  were  the  celebra 
tions  of  the  two  parties.  The  Republicans  had  theirs 
first.  Their  procession  was  a  rather  slender  company 
of  men,  who  looked  very  worthy,  and  marched 
through  the  streets,  two  by  two.  I  was  disposed  to 
think  this  display  fairly  adequate,  although  I  did 
have  a  feeling  that  it  was  somewhat  slight.  But 
when  the  Democrats  had  their  procession,  the  streets 
were  black  with  people.  The  whole  county  came 
into  the  town.  Their  procession  left  the  other  no 
where.  There  were  crowds  of  men  marching,  and 
innumerable  wagons  followed,  filled  with  families 
of  women  and  children,  carrying  banners  and  trans 
parencies.  I  saw  it  all  from  the  plank  sidewalk.  I 
was  true  to  my  party,  but  what  boy  can  resist  a 
procession  and  a  brass  band?  I  looked  on  with 
something  of  that  unwilling  sympathy  and  admira 
tion  with  which  the  poet  Milton  watches  the  march 
ing  of  the  hosts  of  Hell : 


32  A  Virginian  Village 

Anon  they  moved 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders,  such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle. 

I  followed,  of  course,  and  went  with  the  procession 
to  a  pretty  grove  which  was  not  far  from  our  house, 
where  they  held  a  barbecue  and  slaughtered  an  ox, 
and  distributed  other  kinds  of  food.  I  daresay  I 
ate  some  of  it,  and  was  in  no  way  distinguishable 
from  the  Democratic  little  boys.  In  five  or  six  years 
from  that  time  those  Democratic  little  boys  were  at 
the  front. 

I  had  only  one  gift  when  I  was  at  school  in  which 
I  was  better  than  other  boys,  or  at  least  than  most 
other  boys.  I  was  a  good  declaimer  or  reciter.  My 
first  speech  was  made  in  the  Sunday  School  in  my 
father's  church  in  Baltimore,  when  I  was  nine  years 
old  and  was  in  part  written  by  him.  He  had  adapted 
"You'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age"  to  the  exi 
gencies  of  the  particular  occasion  on  which  it  was  to 
be  delivered  and  had  so  altered  the  piece  as  to  bring 
in  many  topical  allusions,  as  they  are  called,  that  is, 
allusions  to  matters  and  persons  connected  with  the 
Sunday  School.  One  of  these  I  call  to  mind.  The 
reader  will  remember  the  original  lines: 

If  I  should  chance  to  fall  below 
Demosthenes  or  Cicero — • 
Don't  view  me  with  a  critic's  eye 
But  pass  my  imperfections  by. 

There  were  two  young  men  named  Armstrong  and 
Coe,  who  were  teachers  in  the  Sunday  School  and 


Autobiographical  Notes  33 

were  preparing  for  the  ministry.  My  father  altered 
the  lines  to  read  as  follows: 

If  I  should  chance  to  fall  below 
Mister  Armstrong  or  Mister  Coe. 

That  point  was  very  successful.  I  remember  the 
immoderate  laughter  of  the  Sunday  School  Superin 
tendent,  and  I  have  perfectly  before  me  the  coun 
tenance  of  my  father,  in  which  parental  affection 
and  the  pride  of  authorship  were  curiously  blended. 

At  first  I  used  to  take  my  father's  suggestions  as 
to  pieces  to  speak.  One  of  the  first  pieces  he  had 
me  learn  was  the  character  of  the  parson  in  "The 
Deserted  Village,"  "Near  yonder  copse,"  etc.  But 
I  soon  came  to  know  what  pieces  would  suit  me  and 
did  not  always  take  my  father's  advice.  He  wanted 
me  to  memorize  Paul's  speech  before  Agrippa,  but  I 
did  not  think  I  could  make  anything  of  it.  I  found 
in  a  two-volume  life  of  Henry  Clay  in  my  father's 
library  his  speech  on  the  Expunging  Resolution;  I 
committed  to  memory  the  concluding  part  of  that 
speech,  and  it  was  a  standby  with  me  for  years.  Of 
course,  I  was  fond  of  "Hohenlinden"  and  some 
other  pieces,  which  are  in  favor  with  boys  who  like 
to  recite.  I  have  heard  my  father  relate  this  inci 
dent,  from  which  it  would  appear  that  I  must  have 
done  "Hohenlinden"  pretty  well.  I  had  repeated 
"Hohenlinden"  in  the  class  for  declamation  at 
Greencastle,  when  my  father,  who  had  come  into 
the  class  as  a  looker-on,  got  up  and  volunteered  some 
criticisms  of  my  manner  of  doing  it.  Years  after 
wards  he  told  me  that  the  Methodist  clergyman  of 
the  town,  who  was  present,  said  to  him: — "The 
idea  of  your  having  the  presumption  to  criticise 


34  A  Virginian  Village 

that  boy,  when  you  know  perfectly  well  you  couldn't 
do  it  yourself  to  save  your  soul  from  perdition." 
I  doubt  if  any  grown  man  could  do  it  as  a  boy  twelve 
years,  who  has  this  gift,  can  do  it.  He  has  not  a 
boy's  faith.  It  is  perhaps  true  also  that,  in  a  sense, 
men  are  not  as  clever  as  boys.  It  has  been  said  that 
the  brain  of  a  boy  twelve  years  old  is  physiologically 
a  better  instrument  than  it  ever  is  afterwards.  It  is 
of  course  certain  that  a  grown  man  has  not  a  boy's 
facility  in  memorizing.  Some  years  after  this,  when 
I  was  a  Sophomore  at  Columbia  College,  I  once 
learned  by  heart  in  one  afternoon,  and  repeated 
word  for  word  the  next  day  in  Nairne's  room,  the 
whole  of  the  chapter  in  Irving's  "History  of  New 
York"  about  the  battle  between  the  Swedes  and 
the  Dutch.  Of  course  I  could  not  do  that  now,  but 
even  if  I  knew  it  by  heart,  I  could  not  recite  it  now 
as  I  did  it  then.  I  should  not  have  the  faith  in  the 
fun  of  it  I  had  then.  I  had  a  mighty  good  time 
doing  that.  As  my  father  used  to  say  after  preach 
ing  a  good  sermon,  "I  enjoyed  peculiar  liberty." 
It  took  me  twenty  minutes  to  a  half  hour  to  repeat 
it,  but  during  the  whole  of  that  time  the  laugh 
ter  of  the  boys  was  uproarious.  Nairne  was  exceed 
ingly  kind  and  sympathetic.  When  in  describing 
the  encounter  between  Peter  Stuyvesant  and  the 
Swedish  Chief  I  would  throw  myself  into  an  attitude, 
Nairne  would  throw  himself  into  an  attitude.  The 
noise  was  such  that  the  President,  Charles  King, 
sent  down  to  know  what  it  was  about. 

It  was  surprising  what  an  amount  of  talent  of  that 
kind  there  was  in  our  class  at  Columbia.  Horatio 
Potter,  a  son  of  the  Bishop  of  that  name,  had  a  very 
marked  gift  for  graceful  and  spirited  declamation. 


Autobiographical  Notes  35 

He  was  a  very  nice  fellow,  but  was,  I  believe,  rather 
wild,  and  died  early.  But  the  most  extraordinary 
gift  in  that  way  which  I  have  ever  known  any  young 
fellow  to  have  was  possessed  by  a  youth  named 
Arthur  Sturges  in  our  class.  I  should  have  thought 
he  had  the  making  of  a  great  melodramatic  actor. 
He  was  serious,  gentle  and  extremely  nice.  He 
became  a  clergyman  and  died  early. 

In  1857  my  father  left  his  Indiana  professorship 
and  went  to  the  Valley  of  Virginia.  We  went  first 
to  Louisville,  from  there  taking  one  of  the  fine  boats, 
which  at  that  time  ran  between  New  Orleans  and  the 
headwaters  of  the  Ohio.  There  was  a  family  of  New 
Orleans  people  on  the  boat.  The  boat  stopped  for 
an  hour  or  so  at  the  wharf  at  Cincinnati.  One  of  the 
gentlemen  of  this  family  was  leaning  over  the  railing 
of  the  upper  deck,  where  he  could  see  the  gang  plank 
on  the  deck  below,  over  which  anyone  leaving  the 
boat  would  have  to  pass.  The  New  Orleans  family 
had  with  them  a  mulatto,  a  tall,  good  looking  fellow, 
who  belonged  to  them.  The  gentleman  looking  over 
the  rail  told  me  that  he  was  watching  to  see  whether 
this  man  might  not  take  it  into  his  head  to  leave  the 
boat.  He  said  he  was  quite  sure  he  would  not  do  it, 
but  that  the  "underground  railroad"  had  their 
agents,  whose  business  it  was  to  help  slaves  to  run 
away.  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  man  could  have  got 
away,  if  he  had  wished  to  do  so. 

At  Point  Pleasant,  where  the  Kanawha  comes  into 
the  Ohio,  we  took  a  boat  that  went  up  the  Kanawha 
as  far  as  Charleston,  and  from  there  took  the  stage 
to  my  little  mountain  village,  Lewisburg,  in  Green- 
brier  County,  Va.  The  distance  from  Charleston 
to  Lewisburg  was  only  100  miles,  but  we  had  to  stop 


36  A  Virginian  Village 

twice  for  the  night  in  hotels  on  the  way.  How 
jolly  and  social  those  stage  rides  were.  You  were 
always  going  up  or  going  down  a  mountain.  On  the 
way  up,  the  people  would  often  get  out  and  walk. 
The  stages  went  very  slowly  up  hill  and  had  to  make 
time  going  down.  They  would  go  down  a  five-mile 
mountain  almost  at  a  gallop.  You  can  imagine  how 
hard  it  must  have  been  on  the  fore  legs  of  the  horses. 
The  horses  got  very  quickly  what  was  known  as 
''shoulder  jamb,"  and  it  was  a  common  saying  that 
no  horse  was  of  any  account  until  he  had  "shoulder 
jamb."  In  the  winter  when  most  of  the  stages  were 
laid  by — there  was  of  course  no  travel  to  the  Virginia 
Springs  at  that  season — they  used  to  do  with  the 
horses  what  they  call  "freezing"  them.  They  would 
turn  them  out  in  a  field,  in  which  there  was  a  stack 
of  hay  and  through  which  a  stream  of  water  ran. 
They  left  them  there  with  the  ice  and  snow  till  the 
spring  when  they  came  out  all  right,  or  at  least  all 
right  as  stage  horses. 

There  were  two  or  three  persons  whom  I  remember 
on  that  stage  ride.  There  was  a  delightful  young 
fellow,  named  Vick,  from  Vicksburg,  the  grandson 
of  the  founder  of  that  town.  This  youth  was  not 
long  afterwards  killed  in  a  duel.  There  was  also  on 
the  stage  one  of  the  most  remarkable  looking  persons 
I  ever  saw.  He  was  a  negro  who  had  committed  some 
crime  of  violence,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Norfolk, 
in  charge  of  a  constable,  to  be  sent  to  Cuba.  I  have 
scarcely  ever  seen  a  more  impressive  figure  of  a  man 
than  he  was.  He  was  jet  black,  some  six  feet  two  or 
three  inches  in  height,  very  erect  and  of  almost 
perfect  proportions, — with  a  deep  chest,  broad 
shoulders,  slight  waist  and  narrow  flanks.  His  head 


Autobiographical  Notes  37 

seemed  rather  small,  perhaps  by  contrast  with  the 
breadth  of  his  shoulders.  His  features  were  some 
what  African  in  character,  but  not  very  much  so. 
His  face  had  not  in  the  least  the  amiability  of  an 
American-African  countenance,  but  expressed  stern 
ness  and  force.  I  thought  he  must  have  been  some 
African  King.  Indeed  that  would  not  have  been 
impossible.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  Civil  War  the  slave 
trade  was  in  full  operation  and  slaves  were  landed 
on  our  southern  shores.  The  late  Sir  Thomas  Powell 
Buxton,  by  inheritance  a  friend  of  the  negro,  resented 
the  character  of  the  African  as  exhibited  in  the  negro 
minstrel  shows.  He  told  me  that  it  did  not  exist 
in  Africa.  Certainly  this  man  had  none  of  it.  He 
was  most  of  the  time  handcuffed  and  the  constable 
was  careful,  when  he  removed  the  handcuffs,  to  have 
his  revolver  ready, — a  proper  precaution,  no  doubt, 
for  the  man  could  easily  have  cleaned  out  the  whole 
stage.  I  was  unable  to  ride  inside  because  I  got  ill 
with  the  motion,  but  was  usually  on  top  of  the  stage 
with  the  driver  and  the  constable  and  the  African 
King.  The  driver  and  the  constable  and  the  other 
men  on  the  seat  with  the  driver  did  not,  however, 
care  to  have  me  with  them.  As  a  small  boy,  I  may 
have  been  a  restraint  upon  the  freedom  of  their 
conversation.  If  the  seats  by  the  driver  were  in 
demand,  they  had  an  excuse  for  banishing  me  to  the 
top  of  the  stage  with  the  mail  bags  and  the  African 
King.  How  we  held  on  going  down  those  mountains 
I  don't  understand.  We  did  it,  no  doubt,  by  grasping 
the  low  railing  that  ran  round  the  top  of  the  stage. 
But  still  even  with  that  help,  when  going  at  a  gallop 
over  the  thank-you-marms,  as  they  are  called  in 
New  England,  holding  on  could  not  have  been 


38  A  Virginian  Village 

so  easy,  certainly  not  for  the  handcuffed  African 
King. 

We  stayed  in  my  native  Virginia  village  two  or 
three  days.  Leaving  the  rest  of  his  family  there, 
my  father  took  me  with  him  to  the  Valley  of  Virginia, 
where  he  had  been  appointed  a  Presiding  Elder, 
which  means  that  he  had  charge  of  the  Methodist 
churches  in  a  certain  "district,"  as  it  is  called. 
His  district  was  that  part  of  the  Valley  which  ex 
tends  from  Montgomery  County  to  Augusta  County, 
perhaps  a  hundred  miles.  The  Valley  of  Virginia 
lies  between  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  Alleghenies  and 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions  in  the  world.  Up 
and  down  this  valley  he  and  I  would  drive  in  a  buggy. 
If  we  had  to  go  into  the  mountains,  where  the  roads 
were  too  rough  to  permit  of  travelling  on  wheels,  we 
would  go  on  horseback.  We  stayed  on  the  way  at 
people's  houses,  where  we  were  treated  with  great 
kindness  and  hospitality. 

My  father,  during  the  summer  of  1857,  had  two 
public  discussions  with  a  minister  of  the  Southern 
Methodist  Church,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Rosser.  The  Meth 
odist  Church  South  had  seceded  from  the  rest  of 
the  church  in  1844.  Slavery  was  of  course  the  cause. 
But  a  certain  amount  of  slave  territory  remained  with 
the  old  church.  The  Valley  of  Virginia,  where  we 
were,  was  part  of  this  territory.  The  Methodists 
east  of  the  Blue  Ridge  were  in  the  Southern  church. 
The  Southern  Methodists  sent  some  of  their  best 
speakers  into  the  Valley  to  persuade  the  people  of 
the  Valley  that  the  Northern  Church  was  an  abolition 
body.  My  father,  in  his  speeches  had  to  defend  the 
Northern  Church  from  this  charge.  At  the  same  time 
he  had  to  admit  that  the  Northern  Church  was  anti- 


Autobiographical  Notes  39 

Slavery  in  principle.  Considering  what  the  condition 
of  public  feeling  in  the  South  was  in  1857,  which  was 
but  four  years  before  the  war,  I  am  surprised  that  he 
should  have  had  the  boldness  to  do  this.  Nearly 
all  the  substantial  and  respectable  people  of  the 
community  in  all  the  religious  denominations  were 
on  his  side. 

We  lived  in  Salem,  in  Roanoke  County.  I  recall 
this  incident.  They  were  building  a  parsonage  next 
to  the  church.  I  was  looking  on  at  the  work  one  day, 
when  an  overseer  began  beating  with  a  cowhide  a 
little  boy,  who  was  carrying  mortar.  In  Baltimore 
and  in  my  own  Virginia  country,  I  had  never  seen  a 
slave  struck  with  a  whip.  In  Indiana  I  had  been 
reading  about  such  cruelty  in  the  "Semi-Weekly 
Tribune"  for  a  year  or  more,  and  here  I  was  face  to 
face  with  it.  I  picked  up  half  a  brick,  and  started 
for  the  man.  But  whether  I  was  afraid  to  throw  it — 
I  was  only  fourteen  and  small  of  my  age — or  whether 
I  reflected  that  if  I  hit  the  man  with  the  brick  my 
father  would  not  be  able  to  remain  in  the  country 
(and  that  did  occur  to  me),  I  dropped  the  brick,  and 
ran  down  to  an  office,  where  my  father  was  sitting 
with  half  a  dozen  of  his  friends,  and  told  him  in  a  very 
excited  manner  that  the  overseer  had  been  most 
cruelly  beating  a  little  black  boy.  The  men  in  the 
office  exchanged  with  one  another  a  look,  as  if  to 
say,  "This  is  pretty  awkward."  My  father  said 
sternly,  "Mind  your  own  business."  I  went  away 
and  climbed  into  the  loft  of  a  stable  and  lay  there 
upon  a  pile  of  hay,  very  much  broken  up.  The  men 
who  were  sitting  with  my  father,  when  I  burst  into 
the  room  and  made  this  remark,  and  who  were 
devoted  friends  of  his,  would  probably  have  been  as 


40  A  Virginian  Village 

much  disgusted  with  the  sight  as  I  was.  But  a  kind 
of  terrorism  was  abroad,  and  had  been  daily  growing 
stronger  and  stronger,  which  no  man  dared  offend 
and  in  the  face  of  which  it  was  quite  impossible  to 
take  the  side  of  a  negro  against  a  white  man.  It 
had  formerly  been  possible  to  punish  a  white  man  for 
cruelty  to  a  slave.  About  1845  a  white  man  had 
been  turned  out  of  a  church,  which  my  father  had, 
in  the  Valley  of  Virginia,  for  cruelty  to  a  slave. 
But  I  doubt  if  that  would  have  been  possible  after 
the  Republican  Party  had  come  into  existence,  and 
the  Summers  and  such  folk  had  begun  to  get  in  their 
fine  work.  A  few  days  after  the  incident  which  I 
have  just  mentioned,  one  Sunday  afternoon  I  saw  a 
man  in  full  pursuit  of  this  overseer,  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  beater  of  the  little  black  boy, 
although  he  had  a  pistol  in  his  hand,  running  for  dear 
life. 

I  lately  asked  someone  from  the  Valley  of  Virginia 
if  there  was  not  a  little  place  on  the  macadamized 
road  that  runs  the  length  of  the  valley  called  Spring 
field.  He  said  he  thought  there  was.  I  asked  "Is 
there  a  steep,  rather  long  hill  southwest  of  the  place, 
with  a  little  stream  crossing  the  road  at  the  bottom 
of  it?"  He  thought  there  was.  I  have  this  recol 
lection  of  that  place.  We  had  driven  from  Salem  to 
Staunton,  a  distance  of  about  100  miles  and  were 
returning.  In  passing  this  place  I  asked  my  father 
the  name  of  it.  He  said,  "You're  wool-gathering, 
inattentive  boy.  I  told  you  the  name  of  this  place, 
when  we  came  through  before."  I  said,  "I  am  sure 
I  can  tell  you  the  name  before  we  get  to  the  bottom 
of  the  hill."  My  father  said,  "We'll  see."  I  had 
noticed  crossing  the  stream,  at  the  bottom  of  the 


Autobiographical  Notes  41 

hill,  a  covered  carriage,  drawn  by  two  horses,  the 
front  seat,  on  which  there  was  a  colored  man  driving, 
separated  by  glass  from  the  inside  where  there  were 
two  ladies.  I  had  the  reins  and  was  on  the  left  side 
of  the  buggy.  My  father  was  on  the  right,  reading 
a  book.  In  passing  the  carriage,  I  called  out  to  the 
colored  driver: — "Uncle,  what's  the  name  of  this 
place."  "Springfield,  sah,"  said  he.  My  father 
tried  to  cover  my  ears  with  his  hands.  The  two 
ladies  inside  laughed,  although  they  could  not  pos 
sibly  have  known  what  the  joke  was.  But  when 
did  two  women  ever  fail  to  laugh  when  they  might 
have  done  so? 

The  roads  were  too  rough  for  driving  when  we 
went  into  the  mountains,  and  we  would  then  go  horse 
back.  I  recall  one  all  day  ride  of  twenty  miles  in  the 
mountains  in  winter,  the  roads  being  full  of  snow  and 
ice  and  the  going  slow.  I  rode  a  little  bay  roly- 
poly  of  a  Morgan  horse,  an  animated  machine;  with 
the  attractions  of  an  animal  he  was  as  reliable  as  a 
machine.  I  have  seen  no  such  horse  at  their  Morgan 
Horse  Show  in  Vermont.  He  slipped  on  some  ice 
at  the  top  of  a  steep  hill,  about  the  only  wrong  thing 
I  ever  knew  him  to  do,  and  rolled  with  me  to  the 
bottom,  neither  the  horse  nor  I  the  least  bit  the 
worse  for  it.  After  that  long  ride,  I  was  of  course 
pretty  stiff  and  cold  when  I  got  off  the  horse.  We 
stayed  in  a  kind  of  log  house,  which  was,  however, 
very  comfortable.  How  pleasant  the  blazing  logs 
were,  and  how  good  the  sausage  and  buckwheat 
cakes  we  had  for  supper!  Our  hostess  was  a  large, 
strong,  handsome  woman  of  about  forty,  of  a  noble 
appearance  and  with  a  friendly  face.  The  house  had 
two  stories,  we  had  to  go  up  a  ladder  to  our  room, 


42  A  Virginian  Village 

climbing  with  hands  and  feet,  when  we  went  to  bed. 
My  father  had  been  asked  to  preach  on  Infant  Bap 
tism.  Some  missionary  of  the  Baptists  had  been 
preaching  in  these  mountains  against  infant  baptism, 
and  his  arguments  had  proved  too  much  for  the  local 
Methodist  theologians.  My  father  preached  on 
Sunday  morning  in  a  kind  of  schoolhouse,  warmed  by 
a  big  iron  stove  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  to  about 
fifty  people.  He  left  the  desk  and  stood  in  the  midst 
of  the  people,  so  as  to  be  near  the  stove.  I  don't 
think  he  cared  very  much  about  Infant  Baptism, 
but  I  never  saw  him  enjoy  anything  more.  His 
artist  nature  was  pleased  and  his  mind  awakened  by 
the  faith  of  these  simple  people  and  their  belief  and 
confidence  in  him.  It  was  a  striking  scene.  With 
out,  beyond  the  windows,  was  the  hard  and  ragged 
scenery  of  the  Alleghenies  in  midwinter,  the  moun 
tains  covered  with  snow,  and  with  the  black  trunks 
and  bare  branches  of  the  trees  to  the  tops.  He  had 
the  points  of  the  subject  at  his  fingers'  ends  as  a 
matter  of  memory,  but  he  had  no  doubt  arranged 
them  in  his  mind.  For  two  hours  he  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  delighted  mountaineers,  his  eyes  very 
bright  and  speaking  with  the  utmost  animation, 
and  wiped  the  floor  with  the  Baptist  controversialist, 
or  at  least  did  so  in  the  opinion  of  the  listening 
Methodists,  and,  of  course,  in  mine. 

For  two  years,  1858  to  1860,  my  father  lived  in 
Washington  and  I  went  to  school  there.  Then  for 
two  years — 1860-62 — my  father  was  at  the  Sands 
Street  Methodist  Church  in  Brooklyn.  Under  the 
pulpit  of  this  church,  the  celebrated  preacher, 
John  Summerfield,  was  buried.  G.  W.  Curtis  in 
troduces  him  into  his  novel  "Trumps,"  which  was 


Autobiographical  Notes  43 

printed  in  "Harper's  Weekly,"  possibly  with  the  idea 
of  pleasing  the  Harpers  who  were  Methodists.  Mr. 
Wesley  Harper,  a  great  friend  of  my  father's  and  of 
mine,  was  a  member  of  this  church.  I  have  heard 
him  say  that  he  considered  my  father  "the  perfect 
preacher."  One  Sunday  morning,  Dr.  Durbin,  when 
preaching  in  this  church,  in  calling  for  some  witness 
to  attest  the  truth  of  the  Christian  doctrines  he 
was  proclaiming,  looked  downward  and  cried  out, 
"John  Summerfield,  come  up,"  which  produced  a 
great  effect  upon  the  congregation.  Dr.  Durbin 
was  perhaps  the  greatest  oratorical  genius  I  have 
ever  heard.  I  heard  him  once  preach  in  this  church 
from  the  text,  "Likewise  joy  shall  be  in  heaven  over 
one  sinner  that  repenteth  more  than  over  ninety  and 
nine  just  persons  that  need  no  repentance."  He  said 
— this  was  in  1860 — "Suppose  someone  should  come 
here  and  tell  us  'Queen  Victoria  is  alive.'  That  would 
not  greatly  interest  us.  But  suppose  someone  should 
come  in  here  and  cry  out,  'Sir  John  Franklin  is 
alive.' ':  I  have  never  known  any  speaker  to  equal  the 
dramatic  effect  of  that  exclamation,  as  he  gave  it.  I 
have  never  heard  anything  on  the  stage  to  equal  it 
in  reality  and  in  the  thrilling  effect  it  produced. 
Andrew  Jackson  was,  by  the  way,  a  great  admirer  of 
Durbin's  preaching.  He  once  refused  to  appoint  a 
man  Secretary  of  legation  at  St.  Petersburg  because 
the  man  had  said  that  Durbin  was  not  a  great 
preacher.  Jackson  said,  "The  man  must  be  a  fool." 
The  parsonage  in  which  we  lived  adjoined  the 
church  and  a  little  graveyard  which  was  back  of  the 
church.  One  evening  when  I  was  a  Freshman  at  Co 
lumbia,  I  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  of  this  parsonage.  I 
had  been  ill  and  had  been  for  several  days  confined  to 


44  A  Virginian  Village 

the  house  and  was  about  recovered.  A  man  and  a 
woman  came  in  and  said  they  had  come  to  be  married. 
I  told  them  that  my  father  was  out,  but  that  he  would 
be  back  before  long  and  advised  their  waiting.  With 
them  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  young  women  I 
have  ever  seen.  I  found  out  afterwards  who  she  was. 
Her  name  was  Nelly  Slocum;  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Brooklyn  tailor.  She  was  a  girl  of  perhaps 
nineteen  and  she  was  as  good  as  she  was  beauti 
ful.  The  three  sat  on  a  hair  cloth  mahogany  sofa 
just  underneath  a  white  plaster  medallion  of  John 
Wesley  in  a  black  oval  frame.  Under  the  combined 
influence  of  beauty  and  of  convalescence  I  became 
expansive  and  communicative.  The  people  seemed 
amused,  and  the  time  until  my  father's  return  ap 
peared  to  pass  quickly  with  them.  My  father  came 
back;  the  couple  were  married  and  departed  the 
Lord  knows  whither,  and  the  young  lady  went  with 
them.  A  few  weeks  afterwards  I  was  walking  in  one 
of  those  Brooklyn  streets  that  have  botanical  or 
vegetable  names,  such  as  Orange,  Pineapple  or  Cran 
berry — it  was  a  Spring  afternoon  and  the  trees  were 
green — when  I  met  this  young  lady.  I  went  up  to  her 
and  reminded  her  of  our  former  meeting  and  asked 
if  I  might  walk  in  her  direction,  and  I  went  with 
her  as  far  as  her  house.  She  entered  and  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the  front  parlor.  I 
followed  and,  going  up  to  her,  asked  her  if  I  might  kiss 
her,  to  which  she  consented.  I  was  seventeen  years 
old  and  small  of  my  age,  and  she  was  a  well  grown 
young  woman,  so  that  she  was  nearly  a  head  taller 
than  I.  It  was  the  barest  touch  of  the  lips,  and  I 
don't  think  that  either  she  or  I  was  in  an  especially 
susceptible  condition,  but  a  curious  result  followed. 


Autobiographical  Notes  45 

It  was  as  if  I  had  collided  suddenly  and  carelessly 
with  an  infernal  machine.  I  seemed  to  be  thrown 
violently  backwards  some  twenty  feet  through  the 
air  by  the  force  of  the  recoil.  In  the  way  in  which 
the  sensations  ran  back  and  forth  between  my  hands 
and  my  feet,  the  effect  produced  resembled  the  blow 
of  a  cat  o'  nine  tails,  as  I  have  seen  it  described  by 
some  man  who  had  undergone  it.  This  was  followed 
by  a  dull  ache,  such  as  I  have  sometimes  felt  when 
very  severely  kicked  by  a  gun,  one  of  the  old  muzzle- 
loaders,  which  has  been  left  standing  for  six  months 
with  a  charge  in  it. 

After  leaving  Columbia,  I  was  two  years  at  Yale. 
I  hope  some  day  to  have  something  to  say  about 
both  colleges,  but  I  must  hurry  along  now. 

After  I  left  Yale  and  when  I  was  looking  about  for 
something  to  do,  I  wrote  to  the  Principal  of  a  Semi 
nary  for  young  men  and  women  on  the  Susquehanna, 
asking  to  be  employed  as  a  teacher  of  Greek  and 
Latin.  The  Principal  replied  that  that  place  in  his 
institution  was  already  filled,  but  that  I  might  have 
what  he  called  the  "chair  of  Natural  Science,"  salary 
$400.00  a  year,  room,  board,  lights,  washing,  etc., 
included.  I  replied  that  I  should  be  happy  to  take 
the  place,  but  that  I  knew  nothing  about  the  sub 
ject.  He  answered  that  that  made  no  difference,  or 
words  to  that  effect.  I  then  thought  that  I  could 
honestly  undertake  the  work.  I  was  at  this  institu 
tion  for  a  year,  a  year  which  was  one  of  the  pleasant- 
est  and  most  interesting  of  my  life.  I  would  keep 
some  three  or  four  pages  ahead  of  the  classes  in  the 
text-books.  I  don't  think  they  found  me  out.  Now 
and  then  I  would  see  some  sharp  farmer  lad  who 
I  fancied  was  on  to  me,  but  the  girls  did  not  suspect 


46  A  Virginian  Village 

me.  Some  years  later  I  met  one  of  these  young 
ladies,  to  whom  I  confessed  that  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  subjects  I  was  teaching.  At  this  the  expression 
of  her  countenance  grew  sad  and  thoughtful,  and 
she  said  "Well,  the  girls  thought  you  did." 

Many  of  these  young  women  were  of  what  is 
known  as  "Pennsylvania  Dutch"  extraction.  They 
had  German  names  and  German  characteristics. 
Among  other  qualities  of  race,  they  had  the  softness 
of  the  heroines  of  Goethe.  One  of  them  was  Mary 
F.  who  had  a  gliding  motion  in  walking  and  a  patient 
way  of  holding  the  shoulders.  She  had  auburn  hair, 
inclined  to  be  red,  and  hazel  eyes,  and  a  delicate  fair 
complexion,  slightly  freckled.  I  don't  think  I  have 
ever  seen  any  young  woman  in  whom  the  throat, 
chin  and  cheek  were  more  delicately  modeled  than 
hers  were.  Some  of  these  young  ladies  belonged  to 
a  class  in  Astronomy  which  I  taught.  There  were 
young  men  also  in  the  class,  the  seats  for  the  boys 
being  separate  from  those  for  the  girls.  Most  of 
these  young  ladies  were  Methodists.  There  was  at 
one  time  a  revival  going  on  at  the  Methodist  Church 
in  the  town.  The  young  ladies  would  attend  the 
revival  meeting  in  the  evening  and  I  thought  they 
did  not  have  their  lessons  quite  so  well  learned  as 
usual  on  this  account,  though  they  learned  them 
much  better  than  I  learned  mine  when  I  was  in  col 
lege.  On  one  occasion  I  told  these  ladies,  or 
rather  I  told  the  class,  that  they  had  better  take 
advantage  of  their  present  neighborhood  to  the 
heavenly  bodies  in  order  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of 
them,  for  that  in  a  future  state  of  existence  they 
might  not  be  so  close  to  them — a  most  impudent 
and  foolish  remark  for  a  young  fellow  of  twenty-one 


Autobiographical  Notes  47 

to  make  to  young  ladies  who  were  very  near  his  own 
age.  Shortly  after  the  class  had  been  dismissed, 
the  principal  of  the  Seminary,  a  very  fine  and  strong 
character,  came  to  me  and  said  that  some  of  the 
young  ladies,  who  were  members  of  this  class,  were 
very  deeply  grieved  over  something  I  had  said  to 
them,  that  they  were  in  his  parlor  and  that  I  had 
better  go  there  and  try  and  make  my  peace  with 
them,  if  that  were  possible.  He  evidently  thought 
the  situation  pretty  serious.  Accordingly  I  went 
to  this  room  and  found  perhaps  half  a  dozen  young 
ladies  who  were  in  tears,  or  who  had  been  in  tears 
and  whose  eyes  were  still  red  with  weeping.  I 
asked  them  what  I  had  done.  They  said  that  I  had 
made  light  of  their  most  sacred  religious  feelings 
and  had  in  effect  charged  them  with  hypocrisy  and 
they  said  a  great  deal  besides.  It  was  a  very  awk 
ward  moment,  but  I  succeeded  in  expressing  my  re 
gret  and  contrition  in  such  a  way  as  to  obtain  their 
forgiveness. 

The  Seminary  had  an  annual  picnic  in  a  grove  some 
three  miles  down  the  river.  The  school  went  down 
in  wagons.  I  thought  I  should  like  to  row  down  the 
river,  and  I  got  one  of  the  flat-bottomed  boats,  big 
clumsy  things  they  used  on  the  river.  It  was  easy 
rowing  down  stream.  I  took  the  middle  of  the  stream 
and  thus  got  the  help  of  the  current.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  I  left  the  picnic  grounds  for  a  while  with 
half  a  dozen  of  the  young  ladies.  We  must  have 
been  gone  longer  than  I  thought,  for  when  we  got 
back  we  found  it  was  nearly  dark,  that  everybody 
had  left  and  that  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do 
but  to  pull  these  half-dozen  young  women — a  pretty 
substantial  load  they  were — three  miles  upstream. 


48  A  Virginian  Village 

It  was  mighty  hard  work.  I  kept  in  shore  and  thus 
avoided  as  much  as  possible  the  strength  of  the  cur 
rent,  but  even  at  that  it  was  hard  work.  The  young 
women  looked  the  sympathy  they  were  too  tactful  to 
express.  Among  the  number  were  two  strapping 
damsels,  with  Pennsylvania  Dutch  names,  either  of 
whom,  if  she  had  taken  an  oar  and  had  known  how  to 
row,  could  have  pulled  me  out  of  the  boat.  I  think 
it  must  have  taken  me  two  hours  to  pull  the  boat  up 
those  three  miles. 

'I  became  very  intimate  with  the  family  of  the 
Principal  of  the  Seminary.  The  son  of  the  Principal, 
Jim  Mitchell,  was  one  of  the  brightest  and  sharpest 
fellows  I  ever  knew.  He  had  contracted  as  a  child 
some  form  of  heart  disease.  When  he  was  about  ten 
years  old,  he  had  been  for  a  long  time  confined  to  his 
bed  with  this  disorder.  The  doctors  called  it  "Ossifi 
cation  of  the  semilunar  valves  of  the  heart."  The 
little  boy  was  proud  to  have  a  disease  with  such  a 
long  name.  The  sympathizing  ladies  of  the  town, 
who  came  to  his  bedside,  would  say,  "Poor  Jimmie, 
what's  the  matter,  Jimmy?"  The  child  would  answer, 
with  a  good  deal  of  importance:  "Ossification  of  the 
semilunar  valves  of  the  heart."  With  his  abilities, 
he  ought  to  have  become  a  successful  man,  and  he 
might  perhaps  have  become  so  in  spite  of  his  disease. 
But  he  was  a  reckless  fellow,  and  took  no  care  of 
himself,  and  did  not  live  many  years  after  the  period 
of  my  friendship  with  him.  The  Principal's  house 
was  under  the  same  roof  with  the  seminary  and  at 
one  end  of  it.  It  was  all  the  more  homelike  and 
pleasant  by  contrast  with  the  bare  walls  and  board 
floors  of  the  seminary.  I  have  a  memory  of  three 
rooms,  one  a  little  parlor,  with  a  piano  at  which 


Autobiographical  Notes  49 

Jim's  sister  would  sometimes  sing.  You  entered  this 
parlor  from  a  roofed-over  porch,  which  in  summer 
was  covered  with  roses.  The  porch  looked  down  on 
the  Susquehanna  and  beyond  into  the  graceful  slope 
of  the  verdant  Bald  Eagle  range  of  mountains,  a 
spur  of  the  Alleghenies.  Beyond  the  parlor  and 
opening  out  of  it  was  a  little  sitting  room,  where  we 
sat  most  of  the  time.  I  can  imagine  no  future  state 
of  existence  in  which  I  should  be  able  to  forget  the 
kindness  and  friendship  which  are  associated  with 
those  rooms.  Opening  out  of  the  sitting  room  and 
on  the  other  side  from  the  parlor  was  a  room  which 
contained  nothing  but  apples,  which  lay  from  one  to 
two  feet  deep  upon  the  floor.  There  were  two  kinds, 
sheep-noses  and  greenings.  I  much  preferred  the 
sheep-noses.  I  have  ever  since  retained  a  liking  for 
that  apple.  It  is  the  same  as  a  gillyflower.  It  is  odd, 
considering  the  scarcity  of  good  names,  that  one  little 
oblong  apple  of  a  maroon  red,  with  perhaps  a  streak 
of  dull  green,  should  have  two  such  good  names. 
One  of  my  classes  was  in  declamation,  a  subject  I 
was  fairly  well  qualified  to  teach.  There  was  a  boy 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old  in  this  class,  who 
had  a  remarkable  gift  for  declaiming.  One  of  his 
pieces  was  a  poem  called  "The  Black  Regiment," 
by  George  H.  Boker,  which  describes  an  incident  of 
the  Civil  War, — a  negro  regiment  going  into  battle. 
There  were  two  lines  which  the  boy  gave  with  a 
ringing  voice  and  in  a  very  spirited  manner: — 

Down  the  long  dusky  line, 
Teeth  gleam  and  eye  balls  shine. 

Many  years  afterwards  I  told  Boker  about  this  boy's 
manner  of  reciting  these  two  lines,  which  had  stuck 


50  A  Virginian  Village 

in  my  head  and  which  I  was  able  to  repeat  to  him, 
always  a  thing  worth  while  doing  with  a  poet.  He 
told  me  that  a  curious  incident  had  happened  in  rela 
tion  to  these  two  lines.  He  said  that  the  poem  ap 
peared  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  and  that  he  was 
living  at  the  time  in  Philadelphia.  Shortly  after  the 
poem  came  out,  a  deputation  of  colored  men  came 
one  day  to  his  office.  They  told  him  that  they  were 
greatly  flattered  by  the  poem,  which  they  considered 
a  great  compliment  to  their  race.  But  they  said  that 
it  contained  two  lines,  which  were  like  white  people's 
way  of  looking  at  colored  people,  and  seemed  a  little 
sarcastic,  and  they  instanced  these  two  lines.  He 
said  that  nothing  could  have  been  further  from  his 
intention  than  in  any  way  to  throw  ridicule  upon  the 
colored  race  and  asked:  "Don't  you  think  it's  true?" 
They  replied,  "Oh  yes,  that's  niggah."  After  a  little 
more  talk,  they  reconsidered  and  withdrew  their 
request,  and,  having  consented  that  the  lines  should 
remain,  got  up  and  gravely  departed. 

I  had  at  times  an  interest  in  politics.  I  was,  for 
instance,  warmly  opposed  to  the  impeachment  of 
Johnson.  I  have  never  seen  Cant  so  rampant  in  this 
country  as  it  was  at  the  time  of  the  Impeachment 
trial.  You  would  have  thought  you  were  in  Eng 
land.  Cant,  I  suppose,  is  talking  what  you  think 
other  people  think.  I  could  not  see  that  people 
individually  really  wanted  to  have  Johnson  turned 
out  of  the  Presidency.  But  each  thought  that  every 
body  else  did.  I  remember  during  the  trial  going  in 
the  same  carriage  with  three  ministers  to  a  funeral. 
Chief  Justice  Chase,  who  presided  at  the  trial,  had 
made  some  decisions  the  practical  effect  of  which 
was  in  Johnson's  favor.  Chase's  decisions  were  in 


Autobiographical  Notes  51 

accordance  with  the  law  or,  at  any  rate,  with  the  law, 
as  he  understood  it.  He  was  the  chief  judicial  officer 
of  the  country  and  might  have  been  supposed  to 
know  something  about  law.  But  the  canters  were 
all  scandalized.  "How  are  the  mighty  fallen!"  these 
three  donkeys  kept  braying,  none  of  them  really 
caring  much  about  the  matter  or  having  given  any 
thought  to  it. 

Of  course,  as  an  office  holder,  I  was  interested  in  the 
reform  of  the  Civil  Service.  I  sent  an  editorial  on  the 
subject  to  the  "New  York  Evening  Post"  which  I  was 
surprised  to  find  they  printed.  The  civil  service 
never  at  any  other  time  reached  so  low  a  condition  as 
during  the  years  from  1867  to  1870.  Each  civil  servant 
was  held  in  his  place  by  the  favor  of  some  politician. 
Ever  since  Jackson's  time,  no  doubt,  the  tenure  had 
been  pretty  insecure.  But  if  a  man  had  an  office,  he 
usually  remained  in  it.  I  said  in  the  "Evening 
Post"  article  that  the  inertia  had  formerly  been  one 
of  rest,  but  that  under  Johnson  and  Grant  the 
inertia  had  become  one  of  motion: — "The  office 
holder  is  a  piece  of  paper,  and  the  politician  is  the 
paper  weight  that  keeps  him  in  place.  Take  off  the 
politician,  and  the  office  holder  naturally  blows 
about." 

From  the  time  I  left  Yale  until  I  became  a  diplo 
mat,  I  had  however  only  one  real  interest.  I  had  also 
one  real  employment,  although  I  had  followed  in  suc 
cession  several  vocations  to  make  a  living.  I  was  a 
government  clerk  and  I  was  a  teacher.  But  my  one 
real  employment  was  to  sit  on  fences  and  look  at  nat 
ural  scenery.  I  did  indeed  have  one  other  occupa 
tion.  What  is  the  occupation  which  at  that  age  agrees 
easily  with  all  other  pursuits?  And  I  took,  as  I  have 


52  A  Virginian  Village 

said,  a  certain  interest  in  politics,  was  opposed  to  the 
punishment  of  the  South  for  the  assassination  of 
Lincoln,  which  was  not  their  fault,  and  thought  the 
impeachers  of  Johnson  throughout  the  country  fa 
natics,  demagogues,  or  the  dupes  of  Cant,  chiefly  the 
last.  But  my  mind  was  given  to  nature.  I  must  have 
got  to  know  a  great  deal  about  scenery,  if  that  can  be 
called  knowledge  which  fades  from  the  mind  and  is 
forgotten  as  soon  as  it  is  acquired.  If  I  had  been  a 
painter,  I  might  have  made  some  use  of  this  knowl 
edge.  Perhaps  I  might  even  have  made  some  use  of  it 
as  a  writer.  But  at  that  time,  when  I  really  knew 
something  about  scenery,  I  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to 
make  a  scratch  with  a  pen.  Nor  had  I  much  desire 
to  write  anything  I  have  written  a  good  deal  about 
scenery  since  that  time,  and  have  been  told  that  I 
have  rather  a  pretty  gift  for  that  kind  of  writing. 
But  I  could  not  do  it  then.  This  pursuit,  i.  e.,  that 
of  sitting  on  fences  and  looking  at  natural  scenery,  I 
daresay  has  some  advantages.  I  should  not  expect  a 
young  fellow  so  employed  to  do  me  in  a  horse  dicker, 
or  to  tell  me  any  lies  of  any  kind.  But  it  is  not 
favorable  to  that  energy  and  spirit  of  enterprise 
which  should  characterize  a  young  man.  The  de 
lights  which  such  occupations  afford  and  the  ecsta 
sies  of  religious  enthusiasts  which  they  resemble,  are 
they  so  very  different  in  their  essence  from  more 
sensual  pleasures,  which  are  at  the  same  time  inno 
cent?  Is  there  not  something  in  such  feelings  akin 
to  the  sensual?  This  was  then  the  life  I  had  been 
leading  for  five  years,  when  by  the  unexpected  recep 
tion  of  a  diplomatic  appointment,  I  was  "yanked" 
off  the  top  rail  of  a  stake-and-ridered  fence  into  the 
middle  of  London  life. 


Autobiographical  Notes  53 

I  got  the  appointment  in  this  way.  General 
Grant's  secretary,  General  Adam  Badeau,  had  gone 
out  with  Mr.  Motley  as  second  secretary  of  legation. 
He  came  back  and  resigned.  General  Grant's  inten 
tion. was  to  appoint  Mr.  Fish's  son,  Nicholas,  in  his 
place.  For  reasons  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  explain, 
Mr.  Fish  did  not  wish  his  son  to  take  this  place. 
Mr.  Creswell,  the  Postmaster  General,  an  old  friend 
of  my  father's,  suggested  me  in  the  meeting  of  the 
Cabinet.  The  fact  that  General  Grant  knew  my 
father  was  no  doubt  an  advantage. 

Mr.  Motley  was  the  minister.  His  was  a  brilliant 
legation.  He  had  a  fine  house,  in  which  he  enter 
tained  many  Americans,  the  best  English  company, 
and,  of  course,  the  diplomats.  Mrs.  Motley  was  at 
that  time  taking  care  of  the  diplomats  on  Sunday 
evenings.  The  first  Sunday  evening  I  was  in  England 
I  went  to  one  of  these  parties.  Mr.  Motley  took  me 
up  to  a  stout  old  gentleman  in  a  red  fez,  Musurus 
Pasha,  the  Turkish  Ambassador,  and  asked  if  he 
might  introduce  me  to  his  daughters.  As  a  green 
American  youth,  who  had  never  before  been  out  of 
his  own  country,  I  should  have  supposed  that  a 
Turkish  diplomat  in  a  red  fez  would  be  a  Moham 
medan.  I  did  not  know  that  Turkish  diplomats  were 
very  often  Greeks  and  Christians.  Mr.  Motley  then 
introduced  me  to  two  extremely  pretty  girls,  who 
were  the  daughters  of  Musurus.  They  were  natives 
of  London  and  had  lived  there  all  their  lives,  but 
they  spoke  English  with  a  marked  accent. 

A  few  evenings  later,  I  dined  at  Mr.  Motley's 
and  met  some  distinguished  people,  among  them 
Lord  Houghton,  Mrs.  Norton,  and  the  poet  Brown 
ing.  Sir  William  Sterling  Maxwell,  author  of  a  work 


54  A  Virginian  Village 

upon  the  history  of  Spanish  art,  who  afterwards  mar 
ried  Mrs.  Norton,  was  there.  He  told  this  story 
about  Lord  Houghton,  who  must  by  this  time  have 
left  the  house.  He,  Maxwell,  was  at  the  Tuileries 
in  an  ante-room  with  a  number  of  others  waiting  to 
go  in  to  be  presented  to  Louis  Philippe,  among  them 
Houghton,  Monckton  Milnes,  as  he  then  was.  There 
was  only  one  chair  in  the  room,  which  was  kept  there 
for  Louis  Philippe's  minister,  Soult,  Napoleon's  mar 
shal.  Into  this  Milnes  threw  himself  and,  throwing 
one  leg  over  an  arm  of  the  chair,  went  on  laughing 
and  talking  with  a  number  of  men  standing  about. 
Soult  presently  came  into  the  room,  went  up  to  the 
chair,  in  which  Milnes,  who  did  not  see  him,  still 
sat,  talking  and  laughing.  After  standing  for  a  mo 
ment,  looking  sadly  at  Milnes,  Soult  turned  and 
hobbled  off. 

Browning  and  Mrs.  Norton  remained  for  some 
time  talking.  They  were  talking  of  mottoes  and 
coat-of-arms.  Browning  told  of  one  he  liked;  an 
eagle  is  represented  as  flying  up  in  the  face  of  the 
Sun,  and  the  motto  is  "Dazzle  others;  thou  canst 
not  dazzle  me."  Mrs.  Norton  objected  that  the 
motto  should  be  in  Latin,  but  Browning  said,  "Oh 
no."  He  told  this  story:  A  great  Lord  was  once 
riding  through  his  Park  and  saw  some  boys  playing 
there;  he  rode  up  to  them  and,  taking  off  a  ring,  on 
which  there  was  a  seal  containing  a  crest  and  a  motto, 
asked  one  of  the  boys  if  he  could  read  the  motto.  It 
was  Fuimus,  "we  were,"  a  boastful  assertion  of  the 
antiquity  of  his  family.  The  syllables  were  however 
separated  by  a  dot,  as  often  occurs  in  inscriptions. 
The  boy  read  Fui — "I  was,"  mus — "a  mouse." 

Motley  was  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Norton.    You  will 


Autobiographical  Notes  55 

find  an  interesting  sketch  of  her  in  one  of  his  letters 
in  the  volume  of  correspondence,  edited  by  Lady 
Harcourt.  From  the  qualities  displayed  in  that 
volume,  I  should  have  thought  that  he  might  have 
reached  distinction  in  some  form  of  literature  lighter 
than  history. 

Shortly  after  this  the  Queen  of  Holland,  who  was 
a  friend  of  the  Motleys,  came  to  London.  She  was 
literary  and  interested  in  literary  people.  When  she 
came  to  London,  Motley  gave  a  dinner  to  which  he 
asked  a  number  of  literary  men.  I  had  just  come  to 
London  and  was  of  course  vastly  pleased  at  seeing  these 
great  men.  Dickens,  Grote,  the  historian,  Browning, 
Froude,  Wilkie  Collins,  Mrs.  Norton,  Lord  Houghton 
and  others  were  there.  I  was  introduced  to  Grote,  a 
benignant  old  gentleman,  very  tall  and  thin.  I 
thought  that  the  marble  bust  of  him,  with  which  I 
was  familiar  in  the  first  volume  of  his  history,  had 
been  set  upon  a  pair  of  long  slim  legs  and  was  walk 
ing  about.  He  impressed  me  as  having  a  courtesy, 
which  was  a  thing,  not  of  manner  but  of  the  spirit. 
Mrs.  Grote  whom  Sidney  Smith  said  was  the  origin 
of  the  word  "grotesque"  was  not  there.  But  I 
heard  her  a  few  days  later,  make  a  speech  at  a 
Woman's  Suffrage  meeting,  in  which  she  referred  to 
John  Stuart  Mill,  who  was  on  the  platform,  as  "our 
leader."  A  rather  queer  looking,  somewhat  conceited 
and  infinitely  kind-hearted  old  dame,  I  should 
think.  The  young  author,  Lecky,  who  afterwards 
married  a  Lady  in  Waiting  of  the  Queen,  who  had 
come  to  London  with  her,  was  there.  I  wondered 
if  Dickens  was  not  struck  by  Lecky's  resemblance 
to  Tom  Pinch  in  the  illustrations  in  "Martin  Chuzzle- 
wit."  It  was  a  Tom  Pinch,  turned  gentleman,  who 


56  A  Virginian  Village 

had  distinguished  himself  at  the  University  and  writ 
ten  a  book.  I  think  this  was  about  the  last  time 
Dickens  went  anywhere.  He  died  about  two  weeks 
afterwards.  I  was  at  breakfast  one  Sunday  morning 
at  the  Oatland's  Park  Hotel  near  Weybridge,  sitting 
opposite  at  a  long  table  to  two  rather  interesting 
examples  of  their  highly  specialized  English  society, 
evidently  commercial,  very  red  and  very  big;  the 
man,  who  had  a  newspaper,  said  to  his  wife  that 
Charles  Dickens  was  dead. 

Mr.  Motley  was,  of  course,  a  highly  gifted  man. 
He  was  very  handsome  and  had  great  powers  of 
pleasing  and  a  marked  gift  for  distinguished  society. 
He  seemed  to  express  in  his  brilliant  person  some 
thing  of  the  poetry  of  good  society.  He  had  one 
very  important  element  of  success  and  happiness 
in  his  domestic  relationships,  in  the  devotion  of  a 
wife,  who,  I  should  think,  was  about  as  good  a  one 
as  a  man  ever  had,  a  woman  of  great  sense  and 
force  of  character  and  of  great  kindness,  and  in  the 
society  of  his  clever  and  accomplished  young  daugh 
ters.  There  will  be  no  harm  in  my  saying  at  this 
distance  of  time  that  this  distinguished  man  was  a 
little  too  high-strung  and  sensitive  for  a  diploma 
tist.  That  was  the  opinion  of  his  greatest  friends 
and  admirers.  The  philosopher  Emerson  once  said 
to  me  about  him  that  he  had  had  occasion  to  observe 
in  him  certain  "pretty  irritabilities." 

The  diplomatic  house  which  did  the  most  enter 
taining  was  the  German  Embassy.  The  Ambassador 
was  Count  Von  Bernstorff,  a  grave,  thoughtful  and 
very  nice  man,  the  father  of  the  present  German 
Ambassador  in  Washington.  I  remember  a  party 
given  in  that  house  to  meet  the  Count  of  Flanders 


Autobiographical  Notes  57 

and  his  wife,  the  parents  of  the  present  King  of 
Belgium.  The  Count  was  a  blond  man,  much  fairer 
than  his  brother,  the  late  King.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
with  a  large  frame,  spare  of  flesh.  He  had  light  blue 
eyes  and  a  hook  nose.  He  was  altogether  a  rather 
significant  looking  person.  His  wife  was  a  noble 
looking  young  woman,  also  of  good  height,  who  was 
handsome  and  looked  as  nice  as  she  was  beautiful. 
People  would  be  brought  up  to  her  one  by  one  to 
be  introduced.  Among  them  was  a  certain  Mrs.  L., 
whom  it  was  the  fashion  to  ridicule.  I  was  standing 
near  Lord  Lytton,  the  novelist,  and  Hayward  was 
talking  to  him.  Lord  Lytton  was  deaf,  and  I  could 
not  help  hearing  the  remark  that  Hayward  made: 
It  was: — "Did  you  see  the  Princess  stare  at  Mrs.  L.? 
I  liked  her  for  it;  it  showed  a  fine  instinct."  I  was 
shocked  at  such  back-biting  of  an  inoffensive  woman, 
but  then  the  young  have  very  exalted  ideas.  The 
Princess  looked  much  like  the  pictures  of  her  son. 

Hayward  was  a  small  man,  who  had  at  that  time 
a  rather  handsome  and  distinguished  look,  which 
he  afterwards  lost.  He  was  always  a  great  scoffer, 
and  was  also  noted  for  his  risque  conversation.  He 
once  told  me  that  the  night  before  he  had  been  at  one 
of  the  city  dinners,  and  that  Lord  Dufferin  sat  op 
posite  him.  The  table  was  very  wide  and  Hayward 
said  he  was  sorry  that,  on  account  of  the  width  of 
the  table,  they  were  so  far  apart.  Dufferin  said: 
"Then  you  must  make  your  jokes  the  broader" 
Hayward  thought  that  "  Sheridanic." 

My  most  intimate  friend  in  London  was  a  curate 
of  a  church  in  Islington.  My  class  mate  at  Yale, 
the  late  George  Spring  Merriam,  the  greatest  friend 
of  my  life,  who  had  met  him  in  Switzerland,  gave 


58  A  Virginian  Village 

me  a  letter  to  him.  I  was  a  great  deal  with  him  and 
at  his  church.  The  Sunday  evening  7  o'clock  serv 
ices  I  thought  very  attractive.  The  Vicar  was 
Alfred  Blomfield,  a  son  of  a  former  Bishop  of  London, 
who  was  of  the  ecclesiastical  swells  of  the  middle  of 
the  last  century.  Alfred  Blomfield  was  himself  a 
clever  man,  who  had  had  a  distinguished  career  at 
Oxford.  I  particularly  remember  one  of  these  evening 
services.  It  was  when  I  had  first  made  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Blomfields.  Mrs.  Blomfield  was  a 
fine  example  of  a  comely  English  woman,  large  and 
full,  decidedly  handsome.  One  of  Blomfield's 
curates  used  to  tell  me  that  he  thought  her  almost 
a  perfectly  beautiful  woman.  There  was  staying 
with  them  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  at  Tunbridge 
Wells,  who  was  as  fine  a  type  of  a  fresh  young  Eng 
lish  blond  as  you  would  meet  with  anywhere.  It 
was  my  privilege  to  sit  between  these  two  ladies 
in  the  Vicar's  pew,  which  was  very  near  the  chancel. 
The  pew  was  filled  up.  There  was  standing  in  the 
middle  aisle  a  young  woman,  who  was  waiting  to 
take  some  vacant  seat  near  at  hand  as  soon  as  the 
bell  stopped  ringing.  That  is  an  English  custom. 
The  seats  are  kept  for  the  pew-owners  till  the  bell 
stops  ringing,  when  anybody  is  free  to  take  a  seat. 
In  those  days  I  had  rather  weak  eyes,  which  I  pro 
tected  from  very  bright  light  by  wearing  colored 
spectacles.  The  lights  on  the  altar  were  raised, 
and  I  had  recourse  to  my  blue  glasses.  I  think 
the  ladies  got  an  impression  that  this  was  some 
what  singular.  With  my  eyes  protected,  I  found 
myself  very  comfortable  in  these  snug  quarters. 
But  I  was  conscious  of  a  somewhat  insecure  feeling 
from  the  presence  of  the  young  woman,  who  was 


Autobiographical  Notes  59 

standing  in  the  aisle  at  the  end  of  the  pew.  Presently 
the  pew  began  to  assume  to  my  mind  the  semblance 
of  the  long  seat  inside  an  omnibus.  With  some 
apprehension  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Blomfield  and  asked 
whether  there  was  any  danger  of  a  gentleman  being 
asked  to  ride  outside  to  oblige  a  lady.  At  that  I 
am  sure  the  two  ladies  thought  that  I  was  quite 
daft.  Indeed  they  afterwards  told  me  that  they  did. 
Not  many  years  ago  I  was  on  a  visit  to  England  and 
was  walking  in  Piccadilly  and  happened  to  meet 
Blomfield,  who  had  in  the  meantime  become  a 
Bishop.  He  said:  "We  still  have  your  joke  about 
being  asked  to  ride  outside  to  oblige  a  lady." 

I  must  say  something  about  Matthew  Arnold, 
who  was  a  pretty  large  figure  in  my  mind  when  I  was 
a  young  fellow.  I  remember  perfectly  well  the  first 
time  I  heard  of  him.  I  was  a  senior  at  Yale  and  had 
come  to  New  York  for  the  Christmas  vacation.  A 
friend  of  mine  knew  the  poet,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  who 
was  at  that  time  a  clerk  in  the  Custom  House,  and 
took  me  to  see  him  there.  He  said  there  was  an 
English  poet  who  was  a  son  of  Doctor  Arnold, 
named  Matthew  Arnold.  I  knew  something  about 
Doctor  Arnold  from  "Tom  Brown,"  and  supposed 
that  his  son  must  be  clever.  I  liked  the  name 
Matthew,  not  so  usual  in  this  country  as  in  England, 
and  I  liked  his  having  only  one  name,  whereas  most 
of  our  own  poets  had  two  and  wrote  them  out  in  full. 
After  I  returned  to  New  Haven  I  saw  on  the  counter 
of  a  book  store  in  Chapel  Street  a  paper-covered 
essay  of  his,  that  on  Heine.  I  thought  that  wonder 
fully  clever.  Then  I  asked  the  Yale  librarian,  Ad- 
dison  Van  Name,  with  whom  and  Charley  Grinnell 
I  used  to  go  swimming  in  the  harbor,  to  send  for  a 


60  A  Virginian  Village 

copy  of  Arnold's  poems.  I  read  the  poems  with 
delight,  but  when  I  read  the  prose  introduction  to 
them,  I  thought  the  author  was  little  less  than  a 
god.  What  a  contempt  for  clever  irrelevant  things 
this  god-like  being  had !  When  I  thought  of  a  clever 
thing,  I  was  only  too  glad  to  put  it  down,  but  here 
was  a  wonderful  person,  who  in  his  severity  would 
sacrifice  the  most  beautiful  ideas,  which,  of  course, 
came  to  him  as  thick  as  blackberries,  if  they  did 
not  assist  the  ultimate  purpose  he  had  in  mind. 
I  thought  of  him  as  a  tall,  pale,  handsome  person, 
who  knew  all  the  Greek  and  Latin  poetry  that  ever 
was  written,  and  German,  French,  and  Italian  poetry 
besides.  I  thought  he  judged  all  this  literature  with 
absolute  infallibility,  and  I  was  pretty  near  thinking 
that  he  was  almost  as  infallible  when  he  spoke  upon 
other  subjects  besides  literature.  There  is  no  ques 
tion  that  he  did  have  a  very  delicate  perception  of 
poetry.  Indeed  what  English  critic  is  his  equal  in 
this  respect?  I  continued  to  be  in  this  frame  of 
mind  about  him  for  several  years.  A  good  Methodist 
girl  once  gave  me  a  Morocco  bound  copy  of  the  Bible, 
in  four  volumes,  with  flexible  backs  and  beautifully 
printed,  in  which  she  had  written  on  a  fly-leaf,  with 
a  much  clearer  comprehension  of  me  than  I  had, 
"An  antidote  for  an  overdose  of  Matthew  Arnold." 
Indeed  my  state  of  mind  about  Arnold  was  pretty 
manifest  to  anybody.  I  once  quoted  to  James  Had- 
ley  one  of  Arnold's  critical  remarks.  Hadley,  with 
his  wide  reading,  fine  intelligence  and  ripe  experi 
ence,  was  not  subject  to  a  belief  in  anybody's  in 
fallibility.  He  at  once  appreciated  my  state  of  mind 
and  said,  "Oh,  well,  it's  like  any  other  clever  thing." 
I  suppose  young  men  in  this  country  are,  or  were, 


Autobiographical  Notes  61 

particularly  susceptible  to  such  influence  from 
European  writers — an  inheritance  perhaps  of  our 
Colonial  existence.  But  you  will  see  the  same  thing 
in  the  older  countries  as  well.  Carlyle  seemed  to  have 
some  such  effect  on  people  in  the  thirties  and  forties, 
both  here  and  in  England.  It  was  not  only  the  silly 
women  about  in  London  literary  society,  who  were 
talking  and  writing  his  lingo  all  over  the  place,  but 
you  are  surprised  to  find  such  a  man  as  Clough  so 
occupied,  if  I  may  judge  from  letters  of  his  I  have 
seen.  What  is  the  good  of  having  Clough's  culture 
and  reading,  if  one  is  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  some  per 
son  with  a  marked  genius  and  a  strong  will  who 
happens  to  come  along?  Clough  must  have  read 
enough  and  thought  enough  to  know  that,  after  all 
that  has  been  said  in  the  world,  it  is  unlikely  that 
any  one  man  can  have  something  new  to  tell  us  which 
is  so  very  important.  As  regards  myself  it  is  per 
haps  true  that,  without  knowing  it,  I  had  acquired 
a  warm  personal  liking  for  Arnold,  the  result  no 
doubt  of  a  natural  sympathy.  Years  afterwards 
I  published  in  London  a  book  of  essays  in  which  I 
had  a  paper  on  Arnold,  written  when  I  was  young. 
I  asked  one  of  his  nieces  to  say  to  him  that  if  he  saw 
the  book  anywhere,  I  hoped  he  would  not  read  what 
I  had  said  about  him.  In  a  few  days  I  got  a  letter 
from  him  in  which  he  said  that  he  heard  I  did  not 
wish  him  to  read  what  I  had  written  about  him,  and 
that  he  straightway  had  read  it,  and  that  he  thought 
it  very  kind. 

I  went  out  to  spend  a  night  in  Arnold's  house  in 
Surrey.  It  was  a  dull,  damp  evening  in  November. 
He  sent  a  trap  and  pony  to  meet  me  at  the  station, 
from  which  it  was  a  drive  of  two  or  three  miles  to  his 


62  A  Virginian  Village 

house.  I  didn't  know  the  drive  was  to  be  so  long, 
and  I  had  not  worn  a  heavy  overcoat,  so  that  by  the 
time  I  reached  the  house  I  was  chilled  through. 
Before  I  got  out  of  the  trap,  the  tall  figure  of  the 
poet  appeared  at  the  door.  He  called  out,  "Have 
you  brought  the  fish?"  I  knew  nothing  about  fish, 
and  was  too  nearly  chilled  through  to  care  for  such 
matters.  He  said,  "Well,  if  you  haven't  brought 
the  fish,  you  won't  have  any  for  dinner."  When  I 
got  out  of  the  trap,  he  quickly  saw  the  state  I  was 
in  and  said,  "You  poor  fellow,  you  look  almost  dead 
with  cold."  Some  hot  tea  was  quickly  brought  me, 
and  in  the  company  of  his  wife  and  daughters  I  was 
very  happy  in  a  few  minutes.  The  younger  of 
Arnold's  daughters  had  just  prepared  a  birthday  book 
of  her  father's  poetry.  In  this  book  there  was  a  quo 
tation  from  Arnold's  poems  for  each  day  of  the  year. 
We  looked  up  my  birthday,  which  is  the  thirteenth 
of  February.  The  quotation  for  that  date  happened 
to  be  very  pat  to  my  condition  as  a  single  man,  which 
made  the  young  ladies  laugh. 

Later  they  had  in  some  neighbors  to  dinner,  who 
were  interested  in,  and  anxious  about,  the  success  of 
Arnold's  lectures  in  this  country.  He  was  shortly  to 
sail  for  this  country  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  At 
breakfast  the  next  morning  I  was  telling  them  about 
my  friend,  Charles  de  Kay,  whose  poetry  I  thought 
the  best  written  by  any  of  the  younger  American  poets 
of  that  day.  I  said  that  he  had  just  published 
a  volume  of  poems,  all  about  one  young  lady.  At 
that  Arnold's  countenance  assumed  a  quizzical  ex 
pression,  and  I  thought  of  the  Marguerite  of  his 
own  poems.  I  don't  think  anything  is  known  of 
the  identity  of  this  lady,  except  that  she  was  French. 


Autobiographical  Notes  63 

I  am  in  a  position  to  make  one  contribution  to  her 
history,  however.  A  certain  friend  of  Arnold's 
once  told  me  that  she  had  often  teased  Arnold  to 
find  out  who  she  was,  but  that  she  had  only  been 
able  to  get  from  him  this  detail,  that  she  had  a  way 
of  walking  up  and  down  the  floor  with  her  hands  in 
her  pockets. 

Arnold  drove  me  to  the  station  with  the  trap  and 
pony  the  next  morning.  Arnold  would  get  out  and 
walk  up  the  hills  leading  the  pony  and  would  say  to 
me,  screwing  up  his  face  in  a  way  peculiar  to  him, 
"Oh,  don't  you  get  out,"  as  if  I  would  have  stayed 
in.  I  didn't  tell  him  the  story  they  tell  in  Kentucky 
about  a  certain  Green  Clay,  a  noted  horseman  of 
that  country.  In  that  horse-loving  country,  the 
custom  was  to  get  off  a  horse  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill 
and  lead  the  horse  up  and  then  remount  at  the  top. 
Green  Clay  never  did  this,  but  remained  in  the 
saddle  all  the  way  up  hill.  When  asked  why  he 
failed  to  conform  to  the  general  practice  in  this  par 
ticular,  he  replied  that  there  were  many  horses  in 
the  world,  but  only  one  Green  Clay.  Arnold  went 
up  to  town  with  me.  As  we  were  waiting  for  the 
train  at  a  forlorn  station,  we  talked  about  poetry. 
Everyone  knows  what  a  fine  gift  he  had  for  naming 
literary  qualities.  He  said  that  Bryant's  "Water 
fowl"  was  "beautifully  carried."  He  said,  how 
ever,  that  our  people  made  too  much  of  inferior 
poetry,  of  which  he  implied  that  Bryant  had  written 
a  good  deal. 

Parke  Godwin,  Bryant's  son-in-law,  told  me  that 
Arnold,  when  in  this  country,  had  told  him  this  in 
cident.  Hartley  Coleridge  once  said  to  Arnold  that 
he  had  just  read  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems 


64  A  Virginian  Village 

he  had  ever  read.  "Something  of  your  father's,  I 
suppose,"  said  Arnold.  "No,"  he  said,  "my  father 
never  wrote  anything  so  beautiful.  It  is  by  an 
American  poet."  It  was  the  "Waterfowl." 

I  went  to  stay  with  some  people  who  lived  about 
two  miles  from  him,  and  who  were  friends  of  his. 
One  Sunday  afternoon,  I  walked  over  to  see  him 
and  he  walked  back  with  me.  I  had  just  printed 
a  book  of  essays,  which  a  good  many  of  the  Eng 
lish  critics  had  not  liked.  He  said  he  thought  the 
criticisms  showed  a  feeling  against  me  as  an  Ameri 
can.  He  said,  "You  said  some  queer  things  about 
me.  You  said  I  was  truculent."  I  replied  that  I 
meant  that  he  had  that  courage  of  a  young  man. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  knew  what  you  meant."  I 
would  often  see  Arnold  in  company  in  London,  or 
sometimes  in  the  street,  and  have  a  few  minutes' 
talk  with  him.  Later  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  in 
this  country.  I  never  was  so  fond  of  any  man  I 
knew  so  little. 

I  doubt  if  there  is  any  period  of  life  so  generally 
pleasant  as  that  from  thirty-five  to  forty.  At  that 
age  a  man  has  all  the  advantages  of  youth,  and  he 
has  all  the  sense  he  ever  will  have.  At  that  time  of 
my  life  I  was  in  the  foreign  service.  I  should  much 
rather  have  been  at  home,  but  that  I  did  not  seem  to 
be  able  to  accomplish.  I  was  home  once  for  three 
months  during  that  time,  and  I  greatly  enjoyed  that 
visit.  I  remember  with  particular  pleasure  the 
weeks  I  spent  in  Washington.  It  was  then  a  very 
different  place  from  what  it  is  now.  The  "Cave 
Dwellers"  were  still  in  control  of  it.  There  were 
scarcely  any  very  rich  people;  the  people  lived 
mostly  in  small  houses.  One  of  the  pleasantest 


Autobiographical  Notes  65 

houses  was  that  of  two  unmarried  ladies,  who  were 
at  home  on  Sunday  evenings,  and  where  you  would 
find  in  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  the  best  com 
pany  in  the  town.  I  think  the  most  important 
house  at  that  time  in  Washington  was  the  British 
Legation.  The  British  Minister  was  Sir  Edward 
Thornton.  I  knew  him  and  his  family  very  well.  I 
was  there  one  night  to  dinner,  when  there  was  also 
there  a  distinguished  historian  who  lived  in  Wash 
ington  and  who  had  one  of  the  pleasantest  houses  in 
the  place,  a  tall,  slender,  handsome  man,  who,  al 
though  very  old,  was  still  erect  and  in  good  preserva 
tion.  I  remember  at  the  table  Miss  Thornton  spoke 
of  "an  old  man."  "What  do  you  call  an  old  man?" 
asked  the  historian.  "Ninety,"  said  Miss  Thorn 
ton  discreetly.  "Perhaps  that  will  do,"  the  his 
torian  said  thoughtfully.  I  told  him  that  Mr. 
Lowell  had  given  me  a  letter  to  him,  and  he  told  me 
to  call  at  his  house  the  next  day  and  that  he  would 
introduce  me  to  his  wife.  Accordingly  I  called  and 
was  shown  into  a  room  where  there  were  a  number 
of  people.  The  historian  said  to  his  wife:  "This  is 
the  young  gentleman  whom  I  met  at  the  Thorntons' 
last  night."  The  lady  took  one  of  my  hands  in 
each  of  hers  and  led  me  to  a  little  sofa,  and  we  sat 
there  talking,  she  still  holding  my  hands  in  hers  and 
working  them  up  and  down  as  one  does  with  a  baby. 
She  then  dropped  one  of  my  hands  and,  taking  the 
other  in  both  of  hers,  dandled  it  up  and  down  and 
patted  it,  talking  all  the  time  in  praise  of  England. 
I  thought — "You're  a  funny  old  lady,  but  you  seem 
to  like  me,  which  is  an  indication  that  you  have 
good  judgment."  But  I  could  not  understand  why 
she  should  be  praising  England  so  much.  Presently 


66  A  Virginian  Village 

I  saw  what  was  in  her  mind.  She  thought  that  I 
was  a  new  man  who  had  been  sent  out  to  Sir  Edward 
Thornton.  I  said:  "But  I'm  not  an  Englishman; 
I'm  an  American  secretary  in  London."  At  this 
she  sat  bolt  upright  and  assumed  a  very  stern  ex 
pression  of  countenance  and  dropped  my  hand  as  if 
it  were  a  hot  potato — evidently  angry  with  me  be 
cause  she  had  made  herself  ridiculous.  I  never 
forgot  the  incident.  It  gave  me  a  new  idea  of  the 
kind  of  treatment  an  Englishman  gets  in  this  country. 
Some  days  afterwards  I  called  at  the  house  in  the 
evening,  when  I  saw  the  other  side  of  her.  I  found 
her  sitting  alone  with  the  historian.  The  old  his 
torian  was  asleep  most  of  the  time,  but  he  would 
now  and  then  wake  up  and  assent  with  great  energy 
to  something  he  hadn't  heard.  Of  course  we  talked 
about  England,  where  he  had  formerly  been  min 
ister.  I  was  talking  as  if  I  were  not  quite  a  cipher 
in  London,  when  the  lady  said  that,  when  they  were 
in  London,  the  secretary  of  the  legation  did  not  go 
into  society.  I  thought  that  pretty  rude;  so  I  said — 
"Perhaps  not  as  secretary  of  legation,  but  he  can  do 
like  anybody  else;  he  can  go  to  balls  and  take  down 
old  ladies  to  supper  and  work  along  in  that  way  until 
he  can  do  something  better."  It  was  not  quite  so 
smartly  turned  as  that;  that  is  perhaps  more  the 
way  one  would  have  thought  to  say  it  the  day  after. 
But  I  said  something  of  the  kind,  and  the  old  his 
torian,  who  happened  to  wake  up  about  that  time,  I 
thought  looked  at  me  with  some  respect.  She  asked 
me  to  come  to  an  evening  party  at  her  house,  which 
was  to  be  given  a  few  evenings  later.  I  went,  and 
thought  it  one  of  the  pleasantest  parties  I  ever  was 
at.  There  were  a  number  of  very  nice  people  at 


Autobiographical  Notes  67 

that  time  in  Washington.  The  society  was  small 
but  it  was  pleasant  and  they  were  all  together.  Now 
I  am  told  it  is  much  larger  and  broken  up  into  sets. 

My  publishers  tell  me  that  these  reminiscences 
must  stop.  It  was  a  dangerous  experiment,  giving 
an  old  man  carte  blanche  to  talk  about  his  young 
days. 


A  VIRGINIAN  MOUNTAIN  VILLAGE 

I  DESIRE  to  give  a  sketch  of  a  little  slave-holding 
community  which  I  knew  as  a  boy.  This  was  to  be 
found  in  the  Allegheny  Mountains  in  Virginia.  It 
was  a  peculiar  community,  unlike  other  parts  of  the 
South  and  particularly  old  Virginia.  In  race  the  peo 
ple  were  Scotch  Irish;  in  religion  they  were  Presby 
terians;  their  occupations  were  mainly  pastoral.  The 
region  was  an  isolated  one.  At  the  time  of  which  I 
am  speaking  there  was  not  a  railroad  within  a  hun 
dred  miles.  The  roads  were  rough  and  bad,  so  that 
people  used  carriages  very  little.  The  common  way 
of  getting  about  for  men  and  even  for  women  was  on 
horseback.  The  women  rode  to  church  on  horseback. 
But  the  people  of  the  country,  notwithstanding  their 
isolation  and  their  primitive  habits,  lived  in  great 
comfort  and  even  with  a  considerable  degree  of  re 
finement.  The  better  or  richer  sort  lived,  either  on 
their  farms  or  in  the  village,  in  the  two-story  double 
brick  houses,  with  a  hall  through  the  middle,  which 
are  to  be  seen  throughout  that  country. 

The  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  now 
speaking,  say,  1855  to  1860,  was  considerably  less 
than  a  century  old.  It  was  settled  about  the  time  of 
the  Revolution  and  up  to  near  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century  had  been  at  war  with  the  Indians. 
The  first  settlers  were  Scotch-Irish  Presbyterian 
farmers,  who  in  the  century  that  followed  the  Battle 
of  the  Boyne  had  been  driven  from  Ireland  by  British 
ingratitude  and  persecution.  They  came  to  the  usual 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  69 

life  of  the  American  frontier.  For  protection  against 
the  Shawnees,  they  lived  at  first  in  fortified  places. 
As  the  Indians  withdrew,  they  scattered  throughout 
the  country.  The  log  cabin  succeeded  the  fort,  and 
the  frame  house  succeeded  the  log  cabin.  At  a  very 
early  period  they  built  a  stone  church,  singularly 
spacious  and  handsome,  in  part  with  the  labor  of 
their  own  hands.  The  community  prospered  rapidly. 
They  raised  good  horses  and  cattle  and  got  good 
prices  for  them.  This  country,  Greenbrier  County, 
as  it  is  called,  being  a  blue-grass  country,  had  in 
former  days  a  reputation  for  the  breeding  of  good 
stock  similar  to  that  which  the  blue-grass  region  of 
Kentucky  now  has.  In  1811  a  young  married  couple 
started  on  their  wedding  journey  on  horseback.  The 
horse  which  the  lady  rode  was  valued  at  $800,  a 
great  sum  for  that  time  and  place.  That  their  stock 
could  bring  such  prices  shows  how  well  the  people 
must  have  thriven.  They  built  the  comely  brick 
houses  of  which  I  have  spoken.  Then  the  honey 
suckle  vines  grew  at  the  porches,  and  the  humming 
birds  came  and  quivered  before  them.  Within  the 
pianos  began  to  jingle  to  such  pieces  as  the  "Bird 
Waltz"  and  the  "Downfall  of  Paris."  The  fashions 
were  brought  from  Philadelphia.  Under  the  new 
secure  conditions,  affectation  and  vanity  began  also 
to  flourish.  Pride,  too,  came  in,  and  the  descendants 
of  the  pious  peasants,  who,  two  or  three  generations 
before,  had  been  content  by  their  labor  and  courage 
to  obtain  bread  from  the  soil  and  immunity  from  the 
tomahawk  of  the  savage,  now  began  to  entertain 
mythical  suggestions  of  a  genteel  ancestry.  Social 
gradations  and  distinctions  began  to  be  recognized. 
A  court  house  was  built.  A  few  white  stones  gathered 


7O  A  Virginian  Village 

in  the  village  churchyard.  As  day  by  day  the  sun 
sprang  with  youthful  strength  into  the  morning 
heavens,  he  saw  to  expand  beneath  his  beams  the 
joys,  the  virtues,  the  follies,  and  the  refinements  of  a 
civilized  society. 

Such  undoubtedly  had  been  the  history  of  the 
little  community.  But  one  who  saw  it  as  I  did  got 
no  notion  of  this  change  and  progress.  It  seemed 
always  to  have  been  just  what  it  was  then.  The 
quiet  of  the  place  was  profound.  At  noon  perhaps 
the  only  figure  within  sight  would  be  a  woman  in  a 
sun-bonnet  crossing  the  blazing  street  on  a  visit 
to  a  neighbor.  But  this  repose  was  not  dilapidated 
and  shabby,  as  I  imagine  that  of  certain  parts  of 
the  South  to  have  been,  but  was,  as  I  remember  it, 
happy  and  golden.  The  people  worked  hard  enough 
for  comfort  and  competence,  although  not  as  people 
work  at  the  North.  There  was  not  much  mental 
activity  of  any  sort  among  them.  They  had  but  few 
books,  but  they  were  good.  They  read — that  is, 
if  they  read  at  all — the  "Spectator"  and  Scott  and 
the  Standard  English  authors.  The  poet  most  in  fa 
vor  with  these  Presbyterian  young  ladies  was  the 
libertine  and  sceptic,  Byron.  It  may  be  that  Mrs. 
Felicia  Hemans  had  also  a  few  readers. 

Perhaps  I  can  best  give  you  an  idea  of  this  village 
by  describing  some  of  its  individual  members  and 
social  customs.  The  doctor  was  an  interesting  and 
characteristic  person.  He  was  an  old  Virginian;  and 
from  my  knowledge  of  him  I  can  well  understand 
that  the  people  of  the  Valley  and  of  the  West  were 
different  from  the  people  east  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  for 
he  was  unlike  the  thrifty  and  prosaic  people  of  Green- 
brier.  He  was  a  graduate  of  William  and  Mary 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  71 

College  and  had  studied  law.  In  company  with  two 
friends  he  had  started  westward  on  horseback  to 
seek  his  fortune,  as  was  the  custom  of  those  days. 
They  stopped  over  Sunday  in  the  Village,  and  went 
to  the  Presbyterian  church,  and  there  this  young 
gentleman  saw  a  countenance  which  decided  his 
career.  From  this  accidental  church-going  came  a 
life  passed  among  the  valleys  of  Greenbrier.  The 
family  of  the  young  lady  who  was  the  possessor  of 
the  countenance  just  referred  to  made  rather  hard 
conditions.  It  seems  there  were  more  lawyers  than 
were  needed  in  the  connection,  but  it  was  thought 
there  was  room  for  a  physician.  With  old  Virginian 
facility  these  conditions  were  accepted,  and  the  young 
man  went  back  to  college  and  studied  medicine. 
It  may  be  remarked  that  in  those  days  the  prepara 
tion  for  a  profession  was  not  so  serious  a  matter  as  at 
present.  It  thus  happened  that  a  man  intended  by 
nature  for  politics  and  the  forum  spent  his  days 
pacing  along  the  mountain  roads,  his  saddle-bags 
filled  with  little  phials  containing  calomel  and  jalap, 
by  means  of  which  I  do  not  doubt  that  he  visited 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  that  region  the  grudge  he 
never  ceased  to  bear  against  the  Scotch-Irish  guile 
that  had  robbed  him  of  his  proper  career.  The  doc 
tor  had  to  the  full  an  old  Virginian's  contempt  of 
people  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  but  he  was  neverthe 
less  popular  throughout  that  country.  Tall,  erect, 
sarcastic,  irascible,  frank,  indolent,  and  generous, 
he  had  qualities  to  win  men's  affection.  He  was  the 
clever  man  of  the  neighborhood.  If  a  speech  was  to 
be  made,  he  was  called  upon  to  make  it.  It  was  only 
upon  occasions  of  this  kind  that  he  could  be  said  to 
live.  It  was  he  who  made  the  speech  at  the  Fourth 


72  A  Virginian  Village 

of  July  celebration.  This  anniversary  was  celebrated 
in  a  grove  upon  the  top  of  an  adjacent  hill,  a  kind  of 
arboreal  Acropolis  or  natural  temple,  in  which  were 
held  at  long  intervals  the  village  festivals  and  civic 
assemblies.  This  grove,  unlike  more  Northern  wood 
lands,  was  clear  of  undergrowth,  the  tall  columns 
standing  in  the  midst  of  a  clean,  green  floor.  The 
Sunday  Schools  on  that  day  came  in  a  body  to  the 
wood  and  composed  the  audience,  the  grown  people 
looking  on.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  quite  like  a  scene 
in  the  Opera,  to  see  the  little  procession  of  children 
of  five  years  old  and  upward  in  their  best  Sunday 
clothes,  carrying  banners  with  such  customary  de 
vices  as  a  cross,  or  a  lamb,  or  a  shepherd  with  a  crook, 
march  in  under  the  vast  oaks,  while  the  overhanging 
mountains  looked  on.  Seats  for  the  children  were 
made  by  laying  planks  over  stakes  driven  into  the 
\  ground.  A  long,  rude  table,  laid  with  a  white  cloth 
and  plates  and  glasses,  and  having  on  either  side 
benches  also  made  from  plank,  waited  during  the 
morning  ceremonies.  A  platform  was  extemporized 
for  the  orator,  which  also  gave  seats  to  two  or  three 
ministers  and  a  few  of  the  great  men.  The  Declara 
tion  of  Independence  was  read.  The  American  flag 
was  exhibited;  they  thought  of  no  other  in  those 
days.  The  orator  was  the  doctor.  This  was  the  one 
occasion  of  the  year  when  he  could  free  his  mind. 
He  mounted  the  platform  and  made  a  political 
speech.  For  two  full  hours  he  harangued  those  little 
girls  in  white  dresses  and  pink  sashes  on  the  crimes 
of  the  Whig  party  and  the  mysterious  villanies  of 
the  Know-nothings,  while  the  dryads  lurking  in  the 
recesses  of  the  forest  were  astonished  by  such  un 
wonted  dissonances  as  the  "Wilmot  Proviso,"  the 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  73 

"Missouri  Compromise"  and  the  "Resolutions  of 
Nullification."  On  the  platform  behind  the  speaker 
were  the  leading  men.  The  Presbyterian  clergyman 
had  at  that  time  been  some  fifty  years  at  the  stone 
church  below,  so  that  his  ministry  must  have  been 
almost  contemporaneous  with  the  occupation  of  the 
country.  He  had  married  pretty  much  the  entire 
population,  had  christened  their  children,  and  buried 
their  fathers.  He  could  remember  some  of  the  first 
inhabitants  of  the  region,  and  must  have  known 
personally  the  occupants  of  the  oldest  and  wildest 
of  the  churchyard  hillocks.  He  was  a  stately  and 
handsome  old  man,  of  great  authority  with  the  peo 
ple.  He  sat  with  his  hands  crossed  upon  his  cane,  and 
looked  upon  the  violence  of  the  orator  with  a  per 
plexed  and  slightly  fatigued  air,  but  at  the  same  time 
with  an  expression  of  dignified  patience  and  a  mild 
majesty  like  that  of  the  mountain  opposite,  whose 
head  had  just  caught  the  sun.  The  Methodist  min 
ister,  a  much  younger  man,  of  a  very  argumentative 
disposition  and  a  strong  Know-nothing,  cast  his  eyes 
up  among  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  by  pan 
tomime  and  by-play  of  one  sort  or  another,  conveyed 
to  the  audience  his  superior  dissent  from  the  views 
of  the  orator. 

It  might  be  thought  that  this  long  speech  would 
have  been  hard  upon  the  children.  But  my  recol 
lection  is  that  it  was  not.  It  happened  that  the  orator 
had  a  great  gift  for  making  faces.  These  grimaces  of 
his  were  the  wonder  of  the  neighborhood  and  a 
source  of  comment  throughout  that  country,  where 
jokes  were  comparatively  few.  They  were  looked  on 
as  distinctions,  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
orator's  mental  superiorities.  His  own  boys,  who  were 


74  A  Virginian  Village 

my  cousins,  gave  themselves  a  great  deal  of  swagger 
on  account  of  them.  In  company  with  some  of  the 
other  boys,  we  used  to  get  possession  of  seats  upon 
the  front  bench,  where  we  were  under  the  nose  of  the 
speaker;  and  as  grimace  succeeded  grimace,  each 
more  hideous  than  its  predecessor,  we  would  nudge 
each  other  with  pretended  derision,  but  in  reality 
with  secret  pride;  for  was  it  not  our  father  and  uncle 
whose  contortions  of  countenance  thus  fascinated 
the  infant  gaze  of  Greenbrier  County? 

The  part  which  this  gentleman  took  in  the  war 
may  be  worth  mentioning,  as  it  illustrates  the  action 
of  many  thousands  of  Southern  men.  At  this  time 
I  doubt  if  he  had  ever  thought  of  secession  as  a 
thing  possible  in  his  day.  I  shall  presently  try  to 
explain  how  this  transition  came  to  the  minds  of  men 
of  the  border  states.  It  is  true,  however,  that  he  was 
during  the  war  a  very  thorough  and  effective  rebel. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  career  he  seemed  to  have 
found  a  task  to  his  liking.  Just  previous  to  the  out 
break  of  the  war,  he  had  been  paralyzed  and  had  been 
compelled  to  give  up  his  practice.  He  was  unable 
to  move  from  his  chair.  But  he  went  into  the  work 
of  raising  the  country  with  the  greatest  ardor.  He 
got  possession  of  the  village  paper,  filled  it  with 
inflammatory  articles,  and  scattered  the  little  fire 
brand  throughout  the  adjacent  country.  He  had 
himself  carried  in  his  chair  to  the  steps  of  the  Court 
House,  from  which  he  would  deliver  passionate  ha 
rangues  to  the  people,  who  were  very  fond  and  proud 
of  him.  The  country  soon  became  a  debatable 
ground  between  the  two  armies.  But  he  was  not  on 
this  account  the  less  energetic.  The  Federal  Provost- 
Marshal  made  many  attempts  to  quiet  him,  but 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  75 

to  no  purpose.  On  one  occasion  this  officer  came 
with  an  orderly  or  two  to  his  house  and  threatened 
to  kill  him  in  case  he  gave  further  trouble.  This 
menace  greatly  surprised  the  doctor.  "Kill  me,"  he 
said,  "why,  my  good  friend,  look  at  me.  I  am  not 
able  to  get  out  of  this  chair  and  never  shall  be.  I 
can't  move  hand  or  foot.  I  am  fed  with  a  spoon. 
What  do  you  suppose  I  care  for  life?  If  you  wish 
to  kill  me,  you  are  at  liberty  to  shoot  away  as  quick 
as  you  like."  The  Provost-Marshal  gave  him  up 
and  went  away. 

This  gentleman  was,  as  I  knew  him,  an  erect  and 
vigorous  man.  I  remember  well  the  old  gray  pacer 
upon  which  he  moved  among  those  peaceful  valleys, 
his  mind,  I  doubt  not,  often  occupied  with  thoughts 
of  his  disappointed  ambitions.  He  was  a  connection 
of  my  own  and  a  great  friend  of  my  childhood.  As 
he  will  never  have  an  opportunity  to  appear  before 
so  distinguished  an  audience  as  the  present  one,  I 
think  I  ought  to  say  that  I  believe  he  really  was  a 
clever  man. 

The  community  I  have  been  describing  was,  not 
withstanding  its  many  points  of  dissimilarity  to  the 
rest  of  the  South,  thoroughly  Southern.  Like  the 
South,  it  was  hospitable.  The  houses  of  the  people, 
particularly  those  in  the  country,  were  often  filled 
with  parties  of  young  people.  The  community  was, 
in  its  own  way,  like  the  South  in  general,  aristocratic. 
Mistaken  notions  have  been  held  in  regard  to  the 
aristocratic  condition  of  Southern  society.  One  of 
these  is  that  the  planters  lived  with  a  degree  of  state 
and  luxury.  This  I  imagine  to  be  a  mistake.  This 
way  of  living  existed  in  a  few  localities,  but  was  not 
general.  Manners  as  a  rule  were  simple.  But  it  is 


76  A  Virginian  Village 

not  to  be  supposed  that,  because  Southern  society 
had  not  the  refinement  of  living  which  has  been 
ascribed  to  it,  it  was  not  therefore  aristocratic.  All 
that  is  necessary  to  make  a  society  aristocratic  is 
that  certain  of  its  members  shall  be  recognized  by 
their  neighbors  to  be  superior  to  certain  others.  This 
was  true  of  the  South.  It  was  true  of  the  Greenbrier 
people.  I  think  that  even  the  little  boys  with  whom 
I  played  had  a  feeling  that  certain  of  their  number 
were  on  the  score  of  birth  distinctly  superior  to  cer 
tain  others.  Yet  our  manners  and  customs  were  not 
very  distinguished.  We  all  went  bare-footed.  No 
boy  under  fifteen,  from  May  till  the  winter  set  in, 
wore  shoes  and  stockings.  The  dress  of  the  boys  con 
sisted  of  a  shirt,  perhaps  a  jacket,  possibly  a  single 
suspender,  a  pair  of  trousers  in  a  state  of  integrity 
more  or  less  complete,  and  a  straw  hat,  usually  torn 
at  the  brim.  They  got  scarcely  any  learning  and  went 
very  little  to  school.  Their  time  was  mostly  passed 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  village  stores  or  in  hunting 
the  ground-squirrel,  a  little  animal  resembling  a 
chipmunk.  The  boys  laid  aside  social  distinctions 
when  in  pursuit  of  this  quarry.  The  hunt  took  place 
in  the  grove  upon  an  adjoining  hill  which  has  been 
described  and  was  participated  in  by  all  the  boys 
of  the  village  from  six  to  twelve  years  of  age.  The 
sport  began  while  the  morning  was  yet  fresh  and  the 
shadows  long.  After  a  breakfast  of  coffee,  ham, 
corn  pone,  and  hot  salt-rising — the  easy-going  people 
allowed  the  children  to  eat  anything — they  sallied 
forth  to  the  wood.  The  little  darkies  came  too. 
Every  boy  was  accompanied  by  a  cur  of  some  de 
scription,  which,  with  his  tail  curled  over  his  back, 
stepped  about  full  of  the  day's  occupations.  The 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  77 

larger  boys  issued  their  loud  commands,  and  the 
lesser  boys  ran  hither  and  thither  with  a  great 
sense  of  the  importance  of  the  occasion.  The  hunt 
continued  throughout  the  morning  hours.  The 
sylvan  scene  was  vocal  with  the  excitement  of  the 
pursuit.  Commerce  slept  in  the  little  mart  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  and  Justice  dozed  in  the  quiet  Court 
House;  but  the  wood  above  rang  with  the  shouts  of 
the  youthful  hunters,  and  every  urchin  and  pick 
aninny  and  village  cur  and  mongrel  joined  the  cry 
and  added  to  the  tumult.  The  sport  was,  however, 
not  altogether  confined  to  the  boys.  There  was,  I 
remember,  one  little  Amazon,  a  girl  of  perhaps  eight 
summers,  who,  in  sun-bonnet  and  with  flying  curls, 
sped  along  among  the  foremost  of  the  pursuers,  and 
whom  I  can  fancy  exclaiming  like  an  infant  Hip- 
polyta : 

I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete,  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta.    Never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding;  for  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry.    I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

I  have  said  that  the  doctor  did  not  imagine  five 
years  before  the  war  that  secession  would  be  possible 
in  his  day.  I  am  sure  that  at  this  time  nobody  spoke 
or  thought  of  secession.  That  was  true,  not  only  of 
this  region,  but  of  all  Virginia  up  to  the  outbreak 
of  the  war.  At  the  time  Virginia  went  out  of  the 
Union,  I  doubt  if  one  man  in  a  hundred  was  really 
in  favor  of  secession. 

The  incidents  I  am  here  describing  took  place 


78  A  Virginian  Village 

during  a  summer  I  passed  in  this  country  in  1854.  I 
was  again  in  this  country,  and  in  other  parts  of  Vir 
ginia,  in  1857  and  1858.  The  interval  I  had  passed  in 
the  West  and  I  returned  to  Virginia  an  ardent  oppo 
nent  of  slavery.  I  had  thus  good  opportunities  of 
knowing  what  the  people  were  thinking,  better,  I  dare 
say,  than  if  I  had  been  older.  People  would  put  up 
with  talk  from  a  boy  of  fourteen,  which  they  would 
not  have  permitted  from  a  grown  man,  and  would 
discuss  subjects  with  him  they  would  not  ordinarily 
have  discussed  with  a  person  of  a  different  way  of 
thinking. 

Anyone  living  in  the  South  at  that  time  and  dis 
liking  slavery  was  in  an  unusual  situation.  I  don't 
think  I  knew  in  Virginia  more  than  two  or  three 
persons  who  were  opposed  to  slavery,  and  they  never 
expressed  their  views.  One  of  these  was  my  father. 
He  was  ready  to  make  sacrifices  for  his  opinions. 
A  very  poor  man,  he  freed  some  slaves  that  had  come 
to  us  after  the  death  of  a  relation,  thinking  it  wrong 
to  own  slaves.  But  he  scarcely  ever  spoke  of  the 
subject  and  was  careful  to  impress  upon  me  the 
necessity  of  holding  my  tongue.  Of  course,  I  knew 
what  his  feelings  were,  but  I  can  at  this  moment 
recall  only  one  instance  of  his  referring  to  them. 
We  were  riding  single  file  along  a  bridle  path  on  the 
top  of  the  Alleghenies,  the  green  floor  of  the  Valley 
of  Virginia,  dotted  here  and  there  with  farms  and 
villages,  spread  out  some  thousands  of  feet  beneath 
us,  when  we  met  an  old  negro  riding  a  mule  and  going 
in  the  opposite  direction.  He  bowed  his  head  very 
low  as  he  passed  us  and  said,  with  great  humbleness, 
"Sarvant,  Sah."  My  father  said:  "Did  you  notice 
that?  You  write  'Your  obedient  servant'  at  the 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  79 

end  of  a  letter,  but  that  is  merely  a  form  of  civility; 
but  that  a  man  should  say  it,  really  meaning  it,  how 
dreadful  that  is!"  But  I  doubt  if  my  father  would 
have  said  even  this,  if  we  had  not  been  at  such  a 
distance  from  the  world,  with  the  haunts  of  men  so 
far  beneath  our  feet. 

If  there  was  a  community  which  should  have 
been  inaccessible  to  secession  it  was  this.  In  external 
things  it  had  little  in  common  with  the  South.  Of 
course,  it  raised  no  cotton  or  sugar  or  even  tobacco. 
It  had  very  little  agriculture  of  any  kind.  Owing 
to  its  great  altitude — the  village  is  2,300  feet  above 
the  sea — the  thermometer  will,  on  winter  nights, 
sometimes  fall  to  25  below  zero.  The  Scotch-Irish 
Presbyterians  were  very  nearly  akin  to  Puritans. 
In  the  stone  church  was  preached  a  Calvinism  as  un 
compromising  as  that  to  be  heard  in  any  white  temple 
among  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  Slavery,  else 
where  the  one  vigorous  and  aggressive  institution  of 
the  South,  existed  in  an  exceedingly  mild  form  here. 
The  richer  people  did  not  have  more  than  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  slaves.  These  slaves  were  treated 
with  kindness,  as  I  can  well  remember.  The  old 
Virginians  looked  down  upon  the  stock-breeders 
and  drovers  of  the  mountains,  but  there  was  one 
point  at  which  the  mountaineers  considered  them 
selves  superior  to  the  old  Virginians;  they  were 
more  humane  masters.  Cruelty  to  slaves  was  an 
offense  treated  with  grave  social  reprobation.  I 
remember  that  a  man  was  dismissed  from  the  Meth 
odist  church  for  beating  a  slave.  A  slave  was 
rarely  sold.  In  my  own  connection,  I  believe  it 
happened  in  but  a  single  case.  About  1840,  a  man 
who  had  committed  a  number  of  crimes  was  sold 


8o  A  Virginian  Village 

South.  For  a  quarter  of  a  century  afterward  this 
incident  was  still  talked  of  as  something  very  re 
markable.  Such  were  the  points  of  difference  be 
tween  this  region  and  the  rest  of  the  South.  Yet 
notwithstanding  all  these  points  of  dissimilarity 
to  the  South,  when  secession  came,  this  country 
seceded  too. 

Of  course  the  ultimate  reason  of  secession  was  that 
there  was  "an  irrepressible  conflict"  between  the 
two  systems  of  slave  labor  and  free  labor.  As  Lin 
coln  said,  "The  country  must  either  be  all  free  or  all 
slave,"  or,  as  Calhoun  said  twenty  years  earlier, 
the  Southern  people  could  not  long  continue  to  live 
side  by  side  with  the  Northern  people  under  the  same 
government  if  the  Northern  people  believed  the  in 
stitution  in  which  their  existence  was  bound  up  to  be 
wicked.  The  rationale  of  the  irrepressible  conflict 
idea  was  as  follows:  The  North  said  that  slavery 
was  wrong;  the  South  replied  at  first  mildly  but 
apologetically.  The  North  expressed  itself  more 
strongly;  the  South  expressed  itself  more  angrily. 
The  two  public  sentiments  kept  reacting  upon  and 
intensifying  each  other,  with  the  certainty  that  in 
the  end  war  or  separation,  or  both,  must  result. 
Such  was  the  ultimate  and  fundamental  cause  of 
secession.  But  I  should  like  to  say  something  of  the 
manner  in  which  secession  came,  to  describe  the 
mental  characteristics  of  the  Southern  people,  as  I 
knew  them,  just  previous  to  the  war. 

From  my  recollection  of  the  South  in  those  days 
my  belief  is  that  the  chief  mental  characteristic 
of  the  South  was  that  it  had  lost  the  power  of  dis 
cussion  and  discrimination.  The  more  conservative 
people  were  unable  to  say,  "no"  to  the  propositions 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  81 

of  the  more  extreme  people.  I  remember  one  after 
noon  in  the  House  of  Representatives  in  the  winter 
of  '59-60 — the  atmosphere,  of  course,  highly  charged 
with  excitement,  the  gaily  dressed  Southern  ladies 
in  the  galleries  applauding  with  gloved  hands,  the 
poor  creatures  so  soon  to  be  face  to  face  with  the 
manifold  miseries  and  obscurities  of  war — hearing 
the  late  J.  L.  M.  Curry,  a  very  fine  orator,  exclaim 
with  ringing  voice:  "We  at  the  South  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  distinguishing  between  the  various  shades 
of  opposition  to  our  institutions."  They  had  in 
truth  lost  the  power  to  distinguish  and  to  discrimi 
nate.  Regarding  the  slavery  question  itself,  it  was 
inevitable  that  it  must  soon  reach  a  point  at  which  it 
was  impossible  to  discuss  it.  The  chief  reason  of  this 
impossibility  was  that  it  would  not  do  that  slavery 
should  be  talked  of  in  the  presence  of  slaves.  The 
slaves  would  overhear.  Not  that  the  Southern  peo 
ple  consciously  feared  the  slaves.  During  my 
years  of  residence  at  the  South  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  heard  the  mention  of  the  phrase  "servile 
insurrection"  or  of  any  equivalent  expression.  It 
was  too  dreadful  a  contingency  to  be  taken  into 
consideration  at  all,  to  be  talked  about  or  even 
thought  of.  But  nevertheless  they  could  not  bear 
that  the  negro  should  become  in  the  most  remote 
way  a  party  to  the  controversy. 

Another  reason  of  the  impossibility  of  discussion 
was  the  bitter  pride  with  which  the  Southern  people 
resented  the  accusations  of  the  opponents  of  slavery. 
If  they  could  have  discussed  it,  they  might  have 
got  rid  of  it.  Mr.  George  Merriam  has  lately  asked 
why  the  South  could  not  have  abolished  slavery,  as 
the  South  American  Republics  did.  I  don't  know 


82  A  Virginian  Village 

anything  about  South  America,  but  were  there  any 
Fanueil  Halls  or  Exeter  Halls  there?  Anglo-Saxon 
human  nature  being  such  as  it  is,  could  the  Southern 
people  have  been  expected,  under  the  fire  of  accusa 
tions  from  their  critics,  to  set  about  and  adhere  to 
some  orderly  plan  of  emancipation?  If  they  had 
been  a  community  of  sages,  perhaps  yes,  but  not 
otherwise. 

The  same  inability  of  discussion  which  the  South 
had  shown  regarding  slavery,  it  still  exhibited  when 
secession  was  proposed.  For  many  years  Southern 
pro-slavery  opinion  had  been  advancing  from  point 
to  point.  It  had  always  been  easy  to  move  in  this 
direction.  But  it  was  hard  to  oppose  a  step  in  ad 
vance,  because  opposition  necessitated  discussion, 
and  discussion  was  impossible.  So  when  secession 
was  at  last  proposed,  it  was  as  difficult  to  resist  this 
final  step  as  it  had  been  to  resist  any  of  the  previous 
ones.  A  most  striking  and  important  feature  of  the 
situation,  by  the  way,  was  that  the  individual  be 
came  very  much  afraid  of  the  mass.  Everybody  was 
afraid  of  what  everybody  else  was  thinking.  The 
temptation  of  each  man  was  to  adopt  the  most 
violent  language  and  to  favor  the  most  extreme 
measures,  in  order  to  convince  his  neighbors  that  he 
thought  as  they  did.  Thus  the  more  extreme  posi 
tion  always  attracted  the  people  away  from  the  less 
extreme  one.  I  may  mention  the  case  of  Mr.  Lamar. 
Mr.  Lamar  did  not  want  secession.  He  went  to  the 
Mississippi  convention,  hoping  there  would  be  no 
secession,  and  at  any  rate,  intending,  if  the  State 
did  secede,  to  favor  a  clause  providing  that  the 
ordinance  should  take  effect  only  after  nine  States 
had  seceded.  The  result  was  that  the  convention 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  83 

seceded  outright  and  made  Mr.  Lamar  draw  up  the 
ordinance  of  secession.  This  is  exactly  an  illustration 
of  what  I  am  saying.  The  man  who  wished  to  make 
secession  contingent  upon  the  action  of  nine  States 
could  oppose  no  effective  resistance  to  the  man  who 
wished  to  secede  outright.  Secession  once  started, 
community  after  community  and  individual  after 
individual  went  down  like  a  row  of  bricks  that  had 
been  set  falling.  I  say,  therefore,  that  my  recollec 
tion  is  that  the  South  seceded  because  there  was  no 
body  who  could  say  "no." 

Regarding  the  widespread  fear  to  which  I  have 
just  alluded,  I  fancy  that  this  has  been  characteristic 
of  many  popular  movements  in  history.  It  was  no 
doubt  so  in  France  during  the  French  Revolution. 
The  people  who,  all  over  France,  bought  little  toy 
guillotines  for  their  children  were  probably  not  more 
cruel  than  the  generality  of  human  beings,  but  fear 
compelled  them  to  be  in  the  movement. 

The  desire  of  the  individual  to  express  sentiments 
of  the  mass,  I  may  here  say,  is  still  to  be  observed  in 
the  South.  The  feeling  of  the  Southern  whites 
against  the  negro,  particularly  among  those  with 
whom  the  negro  is  in  competition,  is,  of  course,  only 
too  real.  But  you  will  nevertheless  often  notice 
that  the  Southern  people,  in  expressing  unfriendly 
sentiments  regarding  the  negro,  are  expressing  less 
their  own  views  than  what  they  believe  to  be  those  of 
the  rest  of  the  community. 

This  individual  and  social  fear  was  associated  with 
a  blind  arrogance  and  rashness  which  is,  I  believe, 
likely  to  be  found  among  slave-holding  populations, 
and  which  was  also  a  contributing  cause  of  secession. 
Of  this  arrogance  I  have  lately  come  across  a  curious 


84  A  Virginian  Village 

example.  In  a  life  of  James  M.  Mason,  Confederate 
envoy  in  London  during  the  Civil  War,  it  is  related 
that  the  English  friends  of  the  Confederacy  wished 
to  obtain  from  the  Confederate  Government  a  dec 
laration  that,  in  case  of  Confederate  success,  no 
attempt  would  be  made  to  open  the  African  slave 
trade.  One  would  have  thought  that  such  a  dec 
laration  would  be  made  as  a  matter  of  course.  On 
the  contrary,  the  Confederate  Government  vigor 
ously  objected  to  doing  this.  They  said  that  the 
Confederate  Constitution  contained  a  provision 
against  the  African  slave  trade,  which  the  United 
States  Constitution  did  not  contain.  But  the  Eng 
lishmen  insisted:  "Why  then  not  make  the  declara 
tion?"  There  could  have  been  but  one  reason  for 
such  hesitation,  which  was  that  there  was  in  the 
Gulf  States  a  party,  which  the  Confederate  Govern 
ment  could  not  afford  to  offend — the  Confederacy 
being  professedly  a  rope  of  sand,  it  could  afford  to 
offend  nobody — a  party  that  wished  to  reopen  the 
slave  trade.  There  was  a  party  in  those  States  that 
really  believed  it  was  possible  to  carry  on  such 
traffic  in  the  face  of  the  opposition,  not  only  of  the 
North,  but  of  the  whole  civilized  world,  and  to  do  this 
across  great  stretches  of  sea,  patrolled  by  the  navies 
of  the  most  powerful  nations. 

Another  characteristic  of  the  beginnings  of  seces 
sion  was  a  marked  tone  of  levity.  This  levity  was 
noticeable  during  the  winter  of  '60-6 1  all  over  the 
country,  in  the  North  as  well  as  in  the  South.  It  was 
very  natural  that  this  should  affect  the  men  of  the 
border  states.  The  Union  to  which  they  had  been 
devotedly  attached  was  at  an  end.  What  hope  could 
a  Virginian,  who  preferred  the  Union,  find  in  a  civil 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  85 

war  of  doubtful  result,  which  was  waged  against  the 
social  organization  to  which  he  belonged?  It  was 
owing  to  this  hopelessness  that  he  accepted  with 
reckless  levity  the  action  of  the  South. 

I  think  I  have  said  enough  to  show  why  my  uncle, 
who  in  1854  and  in  1857  was  a  strong  Union  man, 
should  have  been  in  1861  an  ardent  secessionist. 

It  was  not  till  a  good  many  years  after  the  war 
that  I  saw  this  old  home  of  mine  again.  In  the  ante 
bellum  days  it  took  two  days  of  staging  from  the 
nearest  railway  station  to  reach  the  place.  I  had 
always  thought  of  it  as  accessible  only  after  many 
miles  of  valley  and  mountain  road  had  been  trav 
ersed.  But  since  then  the  railroad  has  applied  its  rule 
of  thumb  to  these  prepossessions  of  the  fancy  and  has 
demonstrated  that  it  is  not  so  far  away  after  all.  I 
was  surprised  one  morning  to  find  myself  sitting  upon 
a  certain  rose-embowered  porch,  reading  the  New 
York  paper  of  the  day  previous.  The  railroad  has 
left  the  village,  which  was  fifty  years  ago  the  metrop 
olis  of  that  entire  region,  six  miles  to  the  South. 
This  distance  I  was  driven  in  a  stage  along  a  moun 
tain  road,  bordered  by  the  tall,  clean  boles  of  lofty 
oak  and  hickory,  and  catching  now  and  again  glimp 
ses  of  the  Greenbrier  River  shining  amid  the  profuse 
shrubbery  of  that  part  of  the  world.  I  may  be 
speaking  with  the  pride  of  a  native,  but  the  scenery 
seems  to  me  the  most  beautiful  I  know.  Its  char 
acter  is  that  of  a  mountain  Kentucky.  You  see  the 
classic  woodlands  of  Kentucky  and  you  find  blue- 
grass  growing  on  the  tops  of  mountains  3,500  feet 
high.  It  is  the  blue-grass  which  gives  the  country  its 
deep  coloring.  Agricultural  and  pastoral  fertility  is 
to  my  mind  an  element  of  beauty;  that  this  country 


86  A  Virginian  Village 

has.  The  mountain  scenery  of  New  England  and 
New  York  has  its  own  sterner  beauty,  but  not  that. 
The  characteristics  of  New  England  mountain 
scenery  are  replaced  in  Pennsylvania  on  the  Sus- 
quehanna  by  a  smiling  vernal  freshness;  and  this  is 
again  succeeded  among  the  West  Virginian  moun 
tains  by  strength  of  hue,  which  I  have  scarcely  ever 
seen  equalled.  You  see  everywhere  a  dense,  sub 
stantial  verdure.  A  profound  bloom  of  summer 
imbues  and  impregnates  the  entire  landscape. 

The  village  had  changed  much.  I  did  not  see  the 
golden  quiet  and  repose  of  the  former  age.  The  town 
seemed  to  be  undergoing  a  slow  recovery  from  a  long 
period  of  decay.  The  Presbyterian  church  was  the 
same  clean  and  serious  structure  I  remembered,  a 
remarkably  substantial  and  handsome  building  to 
have  dated  from  1790.  I  found  this  inscription 
rudely  sketched  upon  one  of  the  stones  of  the  edifice: 
"This  building  was  erected  by  some  of  the  first  in 
habitants  of  this  region  to  commemorate  their  faith 
in  the  religion  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  An  acre  of 
white  stones  surrounds  the  church.  From  the  pews 
from  which  the  village  doctor  and  the  young  lady 
of  Greenbrier  first  looked  at  each  other,  you  may  now 
see  through  the  windows  their  tombstones,  side  by 
side  with  a  taller  one,  upon  which  the  bereaved  pair 
lament  in  accents  of  sharp  grief  the  loss  of  an  only 
daughter.  The  graves  in  the  churchyard  seemed  to 
have  suffered  from  the  dilapidation  to  which  the 
town  had  succumbed.  The  older  graves  are  very 
wild  and  are  overrun  with  masses  of  blue-grass  and 
tangled  wild  roses  and  strawberry  vines,  which  wave 
amid  the  sanctity  and  the  quiet  of  the  place.  I  spent 
an  hour  or  two  of  the  only  morning  I  had  to  pass  in 


A  Virginian  Mountain  Village  87 

the  village,  under  the  lambent  blue  of  the  June  sky, 
putting  aside  the  rank  grasses  and  spelling  out  my 
kinship  to  the  occupants  of  the  sod.  A  burial  ground 
for  the  slaves,  within  the  same  enclosure,  but  sepa 
rate  from  that  of  the  whites,  seemed  in  this  last  scene 
of  the  mortal  career  to  invoke  the  forbearance  of 
Heaven  upon  the  prejudices  of  men.  I  climbed  also 
to  the  top  of  a  round  and  lofty  hill  overlooking  the 
village,  the  crest  of  which  had  been  taken  during  the 
war  as  a  burial  place  for  soldiers  on  either  side  who 
fell  here.  This  spot,  containing  perhaps  a  dozen 
graves  surrounded  by  a  stone  wall,  is  visited  by  the 
people  on  summer  evenings;  here  has  been  laid  some 
Confederate  who  perished  at  a  distance  from  his 
home  or  some  Northern  boy  who  fell  by  the  roadside. 
Lifted  high  above  the  village,  it  stands  now  in  the 
midst  of  the  silence  and  the  verdure  which  reign 
throughout  that  country,  a  monument  of  forgotten 
strife  in  what  we  may  hope  to  be  a  land  of  peace. 


SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

I  LIVED  as  a  boy  in  the  South  for  some  time 
just  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  and 
from  what  I  saw  my  belief  is  that  one  cause  of  se 
cession  was  the  fear  which  the  Southern  individual 
had  of  the  opinion  of  the  rest  of  the  community.  It 
seems  to  me  that  this  fear  was  also  the  ultimate 
cause  of  the  inferiority  of  Southern  antebellum  liter 
ature. 

Most  of  the  literature  of  any  value  produced  in  this 
country  up  to  the  time  of  the  war  had  come  from  the 
North.  The  literature  of  the  South,  of  course  with 
certain  exceptions,  had  been  feeble,  imitative,  exag 
gerated,  affected  and  sentimental.  First,  regarding 
their  books  descriptive  of  their  own  society,  I  mean 
their  novels,  these  books  did  not  describe  society 
truly.  They  could  not  do  so.  The  reason  of  this 
inability  of  Southern  literature  was  that  there  was 
one  institution  regarding  which  it  dared  not  speak 
the  truth.  That  institution  was  one  of  vast  impor 
tance  and  one  which  touched  society  closely  at  every 
point.  Its  necessary  facts  were  abhorrent  to  the 
sentiments  of  the  civilized  world.  The  Southern 
people  were  themselves  part  and  parcel  of  modern 
civilization,  and  they  could  not  bear  a  representation 
of  their  system  which  should  show  how  irreconcilable 
it  was  with  the  civilization  to  which  they  belonged. 
In  other  societies  in  which  slavery  has  existed 
writers  have  been  free  enough  to  describe  it.  There 
is  in  Juvenal  a  description  of  a  cruel  woman,  who 


Southern  Literature  89 

sends  for  the  slave  beater,  and  who  is  represented  as 
pursuing  her  ordinary  household  employments  while 
he  beats  the  slaves.  Says  the  poet:  "While  he  beats, 
she  is  employed  in  enameling  her  face.  She  listens  to 
her  friends'  chat,  or  she  examines  the  broad  gold  of 
an  embroidered  robe.  Still  he  lashes.  She  pores  over 
the  items  in  her  long  diary  of  household  expenses. 
Still  he  lashes,"  etc.  A  Roman  poet  could  so  speak. 
But  in  those  ancient  days  there  was  no  great  mass  of 
Christian  sentiment  such  as  in  our  own  time  es 
poused  the  slave's  cause  and  accused  the  conscience 
of  the  master.  They  had  no  Exeter  Hall  in  those 
days  and  no  Faneuil  Hall,  and  no  great  and  growing 
Republican  party.  I  doubt  if  you  will  find  so  candid 
a  passage  as  this  from  Juvenal  in  the  whole  range  of 
Southern  literature.  Such  freedom  of  description 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  Southern  writers  who 
touched  upon  slavery  could  only  describe  the  amiable 
side  of  it.  They  had  to  represent  the  relation  between 
master  and  slave  as  a  patriarchal  one.  There  was  no 
doubt  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  that  view.  A  humane 
master  did  stand  in  a  patriarchal  relation  to  his 
slaves.  But  it  was  not  the  whole  truth  or  indeed 
more  than  half  the  truth.  There  was,  no  doubt,  a 
great  deal  of  cruelty.  Upon  this  the  Southern  writers 
were,  of  course,  silent.  But  they  did  not  dare  to 
describe  such  unpleasant  facts  as  were  necessary  to 
and  quite  inseparable  from  the  system.  One  morning 
I  was  riding  northward  along  the  macadamized  road 
that  traversed  the  Valley  of  Virginia  when  I  met  an 
old  negro  woman  picking  blackberries  by  the  side  of 
the  road.  I  said:  "Where  are  you  going,  auntie?" 
She  answered:  "God  knows,  massa;  I  don't."  I 
looked  ahead  and  saw  that  she  belonged  to  a  drove 


90  A  Virginian  Village 

of  negroes  who  were  being  taken  south.  There  was  a 
pretty  thick  drove,  perhaps  one  hundred  of  them, 
so  that  I  had  to  ride  down  into  a  little  stream  that 
ran  by  the  side  of  the  road  to  let  them  pass.  They 
came  on  walking  at  a  brisk  pace.  Following  the 
drove  there  was  a  rather  smart  carnage  drawn  by 
two  horses,  a  black  man  driving  on  the  front  seat, 
which  was  separated  by  glass  from  the  two  seats 
inside,  on  which  were  two  well-dressed  white  men, 
the  owners  or  overseers  of  the  lot,  and  with  them  two 
mulatto  women,  no  doubt  also  slaves,  a  mulatto 
woman  seated  by  each  man.  The  men  were  laughing 
and  talking  with  the  women,  the  women  also  laugh 
ing,  and  the  men  seemed  to  be  treating  them  with  a 
certain  respect. 

Such  an  incident  as  that  of  the  old  woman  was  a 
necessary  result  of  the  system.  Of  course,  the  good 
masters  did  not  like  to  sell  their  slaves  and  would  not 
do  it  if  they  could  help  it.  But  they  could  not  al 
ways  help  it.  Then  there  had  to  be  some  bad  mas 
ters.  The  South  had  to  have  its  proportion  of  bad 
people  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  They  could  not 
all  be  patriarchs.  Slaves  would  thus  be  sold.  If 
there  were  slaves  to  be  bought,  there  would,  of 
course,  be  vile  fellows  who  would  make  a  business 
of  dealing  in  them,  and  would  buy  them  in  large 
numbers.  (These  men  were  known  as  "nigger 
traders"  and  were  held  in  great  contempt  by  the 
Southern  people.)  Like  any  other  merchandise,  the 
slaves  would  be  transferred  from  the  cheapest  to  the 
dearest  market,  and  the  least  expensive  way  to  do 
this  was  to  take  them  on  foot.  Thus  you  have  the 
incident  of  the  roadside  to  which  I  have  just  re 
ferred,  and  nobody  in  particular  to  blame.  Yet  you 


Southern  Literature  91 

would  not  see  an  incident  of  this  sort  in  a  novel 
description  of  Southern  life. 

The  obligation  of  the  Southern  writers  to  make  a 
representation  which  should  accord  with  the  theory 
of  patriarchal  ownership  was  destructive  of  all  vigor. 
They  were  under  some  such  enfeebling  limitation  as 
Landseer  would  have  suffered  from  had  he  been 
compelled  to  represent  in  every  picture  a  theory  of 
patriarchal  government  of  dogs.  Suppose  Land- 
seer  had  never  been  permitted  to  paint  a  dog  that 
was  not  happy.  Suppose  he  had  never  been  able  to 
paint  a  mournful  or  an  unfortunate  dog.  What  a 
restraint  it  would  have  been  upon  the  liberty  of  the 
artist.  The  Southern  writers  were  just  as  much  im 
peded  by  the  necessity  they  were  under  never  to 
paint  a  negro  who  was  not  laughing.  The  other 
arts,  I  dare  say,  suffered  from  the  same  limitation. 
A  painter,  for  instance,  might  only  represent  some 
very  happy  darkies  in  a  prodigiously  rich  cotton 
field,  bearing,  say,  400  pounds  to  the  acre,  such  a 
picture  as  you  now  see  hanging  in  the  cotton  ex 
changes  of  the  Southern  States.  I  happen,  indeed, 
to  know  a  case  from  which  it  would  seem  that  it  was 
difficult  for  a  painter  at  the  South  to  represent  a 
negro  at  all.  The  late  Mr.  Healy,  the  American 
portrait  painter,  living  in  Paris,  told  me  that  on  one 
occasion  he  was  employed  at  Washington  by  Daniel 
Webster  to  paint  a  portrait  of  an  old  negro  woman, 
who  had  been  for  many  years  a  servant  in  Webster's 
family  and  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached.  Web 
ster  was  much  pleased  with  the  picture,  and  the 
artist  himself  thought  that  he  had  succeeded  with 
it.  It  was  accordingly  placed  for  exhibition  in  the 
rotunda  of  the  Capitol.  But  some  of  the  members 


92  A  Virginian  Village 

objected  to  this;  they  said  that  it  was  not  proper 
that  the  portrait  of  a  negro  woman  should  be  hung 
up  in  the  rotunda  of  the  Capitol.  "But,"  said  the 
artist,  "suppose  it  was  a  cat  or  a  dog,  you  would 
not  mind,  would  you?  Why,  then,  can't  I  paint  a 
negro?"  But  they  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  it  was 
removed. 

But  the  Southern  writers,  from  being  unable  to  be 
veracious  upon  one  subject,  seemed  to  lose  the  power 
of  veracity  regarding  all  subjects.  They  became 
imitative,  exaggerated  and  sentimental.  Their  so 
ciety  they  Europeanized.  The  Southern  planter 
was  an  English  squire.  They  made  him  a  feeble 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  and  his  farm  or  plantation  a 
rather  shabby  English  manor  house.  They  imi 
tated,  among  other  characteristics  of  the  classic 
describers  of  English  rural  life,  their  mildness  of 
temper.  But  this  good  nature  became,  in  the  pages 
of  Southern  writers,  excessive.  The  calm  catholicity 
of  Addison  and  the  gentle  optimism  of  the  intelligent 
and  the  ever  delightful  Irving  degenerated  in  such 
works  as  Kennedy's  "Swallow  Barn"  into  an  amia 
bility  decidedly  cloying.  That  book  is  a  pretty 
picture  of  departed  happiness  and  sociality,  a 
charming  record  of  the  bright  laughter,  the  friend 
ship  so  sincere  and  cordial,  the  manners  so  simple 
and  well  bred,  of  those  long  forgotten  mornings  of 
1820.  But  it  is  kind  almost  to  the  point  of  absurdity. 
The  foibles  of  the  comic  hero  are  chaffed  so  affec 
tionately;  such  a  gentle  ridicule  is  administered  to 
the  fop;  and  the  sentimentality  and  affectation  of 
the  spinster  are  so  very  tenderly  treated.  Imitative 
in  everything,  the  Southern  writers  were  imitative 
even  in  their  jokes,  which  were,  as  a  rule,  pretty  bad. 


Southern  Literature  93 

Here  is  a  joke  from  the  pages  of  Mr.  Gilmore  Simms, 
of  South  Carolina.  A  master  calls  to  his  slave: 
"Here,  Cuffee,  you  thrice  blackened  baby  of 
Beelzebub;  come  here,  you  imp  of  darkness."  This 
is  the  sort  of  joke  for  which  a  precedent  might  have 
been  cited  out  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  would  there 
fore  do  very  well. 

Everything  was  exaggerated.  All  their  geese  be 
came  swans.  This  is  a  tendency  greatly  to  be  re 
gretted,  for  it  is  a  sad  day  for  literature  when  it  be 
comes  too  good  for  the  facts.  The  truth  is  that 
geese  are  the  more  poetical  of  the  two.  But  the 
Southern  writers  did  not  think  this.  A  soldier  was 
a  cavalier;  a  house  was  a  hall.  They  kept  up  this 
high-flown  phraseology  during  the  period  of  the 
war.  You  would  have  thought  that  the  flag  which 
they  carried  with  such  bravery  upon  so  many  bloody 
fields  was  poetical  enough  in  itself,  but  they  called 
that  an  "oriflamme."  They  represented  everything 
as  different  from  what  it  was.  They  did  not  seem  to 
be  able  to  describe  even  natural  objects  correctly. 
I  should  have  expected  this.  If  you  and  I,  when  we 
met,  had  something  in  common  on  our  minds  of 
which  we  dared  not  speak,  we  could  hardly  talk 
truthfully  about  the  weather.  So  the  Southern 
writers  could  not  describe  a  bird,  a  flower  or  a  star 
as  it  was.  One  of  their  poets,  I  remember,  addresses 
the  mocking-bird  as  "Yorick"  and  "Abbot  of  Mis 
rule."  But  in  truth  they  made  very  little  account 
of  natural  objects.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how 
little  they  had  to  say  about  them.  The  natural 
facts  of  the  South  were  very  peculiar  and  most  unlike 
those  of  other  parts  of  the  world,  but  they  had  never 
been  heard  of  in  rural  England  or  in  Provence  of  the 


94  A  Virginian  Village 

troubadours,  and  the  Southern  writers  would  not 
recognize  them. 

One  characteristic  of  Southern  antebellum  litera 
ture,  I  should  like  to  remark,  is  that  it  was  rarely 
vulgar,  a  claim  which  can  scarcely  be  made  for  the 
literature  of  the  North  during  that  period.  It  is 
strange  that  this  should  be  so,  for  there  is,  of  course, 
a  relation  between  affectation  and  vulgarity.  In 
general,  the  surest  way  to  be  vulgar  is  to  pretend  to 
be  something  you  are  not,  and  that  is  what  the 
Southern  writers  were  always  doing.  And  yet  they 
were  not  vulgar.  I  fancy  the  explanation  of  this  is 
that,  underneath  their  apparent  affectation,  there 
was  a  deep-seated  simplicity. 

The  characteristics  of  antebellum  literature  are 
very  noticeable  in  a  book  I  have  been  lately  trying 
to  read,  a  book  which  I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  a 
boy,  "Flush  Times  of  Alabama  and  Mississippi." 
I  remember  it  well  as  it  stood  on  the  shelf  in  my 
father's  library,  in  two  volumes,  with  some  gay  letter 
ing  running  down  the  back.  I  was  very  fond  of  it  at 
that  time.  I  particularly  remember  the  dedication, 
"To  the  Old  Folks  at  home  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shen- 
andoah,"  which  I  thought  pretty  as  coming  from  the 
Augusta  County  lad  who  had  gone  to  seek  his  for 
tune  among  those  wild  fellows  in  the  Southwest. 
Lincoln,  by  the  way,  was  an  admirer  of  this  book. 
It  was  to  Baldwin,  the  author,  who  was  in  Wash 
ington  during  the  war  and  who  wanted  to  get  through 
the  lines  to  his  family  in  Staunton,  that  he  said  one 
of  his  best  things:  that  he  "had  very  little  influence 
with  this  Administration."  The  book,  however,  is 
very  disappointing.  It  ought  to  have  been  a  good 
book.  The  author  could  hardly  have  had  a  better 


Southern  Literature  95 

subject.  As  I  have  heard  that  Southwestern  so 
ciety  described  in  my  youth  by  elderly  men  who  had 
known  it,  it  must  have  been  highly  interesting. 
They  told  me  that  it  was  composed  of  nothing  but 
young  men,  who  were  full  of  animal  spirits  and  in 
the  pink  of  condition,  and  who,  as  there  were  negroes 
for  the  hard  manual  labor,  had  little  to  do  but  to 
amuse  themselves,  and  that  they  did  amuse  them 
selves  with  a  vengeance.  Now,  if  the  author  had 
only  contented  himself  with  describing  this  society 
as  it  was,  what  a  good  book  he  might  have  made,  for 
he  is  not  at  all  wanting  in  humor  and  in  powers  of 
perception  and  expression.  But  he  is  so  dreadfully 
literary.  Where  he  will  condescend  to  give  the 
facts  he  is  interesting,  but  for  the  most  part  he  is  so 
bent  on  being  like  Scott  or  Addison  that  one  finds 
him  very  tiresome. 

There  was  one  book  of  those  days,  however,  which 
was  quite  without  the  faults  above  indicated.  This 
was  Longstreet's  "Georgia  Scenes,"  a  book  written 
with  a  great  deal  of  freedom  and  truthfulness.  It 
was  about  contemporaneous  with  "Swallow  Barn." 
Longstreet  was  a  Georgia  judge  and  lawyer,  noted 
particularly  as  an  advocate  in  criminal  cases.  On 
account  of  the  death  of  a  child,  he  grew  interested 
in  religious  subjects  and  became  a  Methodist  min 
ister.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Methodist  General 
Conference  of  1844,  at  which  the  Southern  Metho 
dists  separated  from  their  Northern  brethren,  Long- 
street  taking  an  active  part  in  bringing  about  the 
separation.  He  lived  until  after  the  war  and  was 
late  in  life  the  president  of  a  Southern  university. 
He  seems  to  have  been  in  character  not  very  unlike 
other  Southern  politicians.  I  don't  know  why  he 


96  A  Virginian  Village 

should  have  written  a  book  which  differed  from  those 
of  other  Southern  writers.  But  I  am  very  sure  that 
he  did.  His  book  has  a  truthfulness  which  makes 
you  think  of  the  early  ages  of  literature,  of  a  day  be 
fore  periodicals,  and  books,  and  printers,  and  edi 
tors,  when  men  of  genius,  from  no  other  motives 
than  the  desire  of  fame  and  the  strong  need  of  ex 
pression,  engraved  their  intense  thoughts  upon  tab 
lets  of  clay. 

While  speaking  of  exceptions,  I  might  mention 
one  very  important  exception  to  the  remark  made  at 
the  beginning  of  this  paper,  concerning  the  general 
inferiority  of  Southern  antebellum  literature.  Poe 
had  received  a  Southern  education  and  was  very 
Southern.  Like  other  Southern  writers  he  was  Euro 
pean  and  imitative.  He  wrote  of  nothing  that  he 
saw  except  with  his  mind's  eye.  Surely  nothing 
that  could  suggest  his  "radiant  palace"  existed  near 
Baltimore  or  Richmond,  the  Southern  towns  in 
which  he  had  lived.  His  Guy  de  Veres  and  Ula- 
lumes  and  Annabel  Lees  were  of  foreign  origin,  so 
far  as  they  had  any  origin  save  in  his  own  head. 
But,  whether  European  and  imitative  or  not,  Poe 
succeeds  by  the  right  of  genius,  and  fame,  which 
cares  little  for  the  whys  and  the  wherefores,  so  long 
as  the  genius  is  real  and  effective,  will  always  follow 
him.  Critics  dilate  upon  the  contrast  between  a  per 
sonality  apparently  so  uninteresting,  or  at  any  rate 
so  devoid  of  salient  characteristics,  and  his  success  as 
a  poetical  performer.  A  hundred  years  hence,  no 
doubt,  they  will  still  be  dilating  upon  this  contrast — 
and  reading  his  poems. 

I  did  think  that  the  impediment  to  good  literature 
above  mentioned,  namely,  the  want  of  truth  re- 


Southern  Literature  97 

suiting  from  fear,  would  disappear  with  slavery.  I 
have  been  compelled  to  modify  that  expectation.  For 
one  thing,  characteristics  do  not  disappear  with  the 
disappearance  of  the  causes  which  produced  them. 
But  the  causes  still  remain  in  the  continued  existence 
of  the  African  race.  Opinions  regarding  that  race 
which  differ  from  those  of  the  mass  are  not  tolerated 
in  the  South.  Or  if  they  can  be  said  to  be  tolerated,  it 
is  only  toleration  which  is  allowed  them.  But  litera 
ture  cannot  exist  upon  toleration.  It  must  have 
liberty.  Without  liberty  there  cannot  be  that  alert 
and  nimble  way  of  looking  about  and  that  fidelity  in 
recording  what  is  seen  which  are  necessary  to  litera 
ture.  If  the  writer  feels  that  what  he  says  will  be 
received  with  disapprobation,  he  will  be  silent. 

But  it  is  not  only  regarding  the  negroes  that  liberty 
of  speech  is  discouraged  in  the  South.  You  see  the 
same  want  of  freedom  in  the  discussion  of  other  sub 
jects.  A  few  years  ago  in  a  town  in  Tennessee  I 
was  calling  at  a  pleasant  house  on  a  Sunday  after 
noon.  I  had  been  to  church  in  the  morning.  In  a 
pew  in  front  of  me  sat  a  row  of  very  handsome  girls. 
Their  father,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  one  of  the  nicest 
fellows  in  the  world,  had  some  years  before  been  shot 
in  a  quarrel  with  a  political  adversary  whom  he  had 
mortally  wounded  with  a  knife  and  who  died  the 
next  day.  I  ventured  to  remark  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  these  fine  girls  had  been  deprived  of  such  a 
father,  how  he  would  have  enjoyed  them  and  what  a 
friend  they  would  have  found  in  him, — a  safe  enough 
observation,  it  would  seem.  But  it  was  evident 
that  it  was  not  well  received.  One  young  lady  who 
was  present  said  that  she  had  been  informed  that 
the  feud  between  these  two  men  had  become  so  bitter 


98  A  Virginian  Village 

that  the  best  way  out  of  it  was  that  one  or  both  of 
them  should  die, — a  proposition  surely  not  difficult 
of  refutation.  Did  the  young  lady  express  her  own 
real  opinions?  I  do  not  think  so.  She  rather 
wished  to  be  saying  what  she  thought  the  others 
present  would  wish  to  hear. 

It  seems  odd  that  the  South  can  be  said  to  be  de 
ficient  in  that  encouraging  sympathy  which  is  essen 
tial  to  the  production  of  good  literature,  for  if  there 
is  a  quality  with  which  the  Southern  people  are 
specially  gifted,  it  is  sympathy.  They  have  this 
quality  to  a  greater  degree  than  any  people  I  have 
ever  met  with.  The  quality,  indeed,  is  a  charac 
teristic  of  Americans  in  general,  in  part  possibly  due 
to  democracy,  in  part  possibly  also  an  inheritance 
from  our  colonial  life,  colonial  societies  being,  one 
would  expect,  receptive  and  sympathetic.  But 
among  no  other  Americans  does  the  quality  exist  so 
strongly  as  among  the  Southern  people,  and  it  is  the 
especial  characteristic  of  their  gentlemen.  I  have 
in  mind  as  I  write  an  individual,  lately  dead,  a  man 
who,  with  a  great  deal  of  learning  and  scholarship^ 
and  a  fine  literary  discernment  and  discrimination, 
had  an  unselfish  sympathy  and  generosity  of  mind, 
such  as  you  are  not  likely  to  find  in  quite  the  same 
degree  among  men  other  than  Americans  of  Southern 
birth.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  mention 
his  name;  I  mean  the  late  Prof.  Thomas  Price. 
This  quality  of  an  individual  I  believe  to  be  that  of 
the  Southern  people  in  general.  It  ought,  one 
would  think,  to  be  an  encouraging  cause  of  literary 
performance. 

I  cannot  claim  to  be  as  well  read  as  I  should  be  iia 
the  literature  of  the  South  which  has  appeared  since 


Southern  Literature  99 

the  war.  But  from  poems  and  sketches  which  I 
have  read  from  time  to  time,  it  is  evident  that  the 
general  want  of  literary  truth,  which  has  been  attrib 
uted  to  Southern  antebellum  literature,  does  not 
characterize  the  more  recent  literature  of  the  South. 
It  seems  to  me  that  some  of  these  things  are  good 
enough  to  form  part  of  the  permanent  literature  of 
the  country  and  language.  Among  them  I  might 
mention  some  very  delicate  poems  by  the  late  Father 
Tabb,  which  I  have  seen  in  the  magazines,  and  some 
sketches  by  Mr.  Thomas  Nelson  Page.  These  are, 
However,  either  poems  mostly  descriptive  of  natural 
scenery  or  sketches  representing  limited  phases  of 
Southern  life.  But  have  the  Southern  writers  been 
equally  successful  in  depicting  Southern  life  as  a 
whole?  It  has  seemed  to  me  significant  that  some 
of  these  writers  prefer  historical  subjects.  In  their 
books  the  young  ladies  who,  I  am  told,  are  usually 
the  authors  of  them,  are  very  free  with  "Odd  zooks" 
and  "Marry  come  up,"  and  other  such  safe  and  re 
mote  forms  of  expression,  but  the  books,  of  course, 
have  little  that  bears  upon  the  present  Southern  life. 
Is  it  that  these  young  writers  are  afraid  to  tackle 
this  subject? 


A  HORSE-FAIR  PILGRIMAGE 

THERE  is  one  peculiarity  of  natural  scenery 
that  I  always  associate  with  the  agricultural 
fairs,  which  I  am  in  the  habit  of  attending  in 
various  parts  of  the  country — the  reason  being  that 
these  fairs  occur  in  the  late  summer  and  early  au 
tumn,  when  this  peculiarity  exists.  I  mean  the 
mist  which  you  see  in  the  distance.  A  transparent 
veil  of  autumn  haze  dims  the  surrounding  country, 
which  seems  to  revive  under  it  with  the  verdure  of  a 
deceptive  spring-time,  and  lies  upon  the  distant 
meadows  with  a  touch  infinitely  soft.  The  mist  is 
always  there.  The  horses  contend  around  the  track, 
and  the  big,  handsome  bulls  doze  and  chew  the  cud 
before  the  grand  stand,  while  the  judges  walk  round 
them;  the  parachute  man  goes  up,  and  the  trained 
elks  plunge  thirty  feet  into  water,  and  the  man  and 
woman  in  tights  and  spangles  perform  on  the  trapeze. 
But  still  that  mist  dreams  on,  its  blue,  inward, 
musing  eye  resting  upon  some  thought,  remote  from 
earth  and  human  things. 

Wherever  I  attend  these  fairs,  whether  in  New 
England,  Virginia,  Kentucky,  or  the  Western  States, 
the  mist  surrounds  me.  One  has  a  consciousness  or 
half  consciousness  of  it,  as  one  watches  from  the 
grand  stand  the  jogging  of  the  horses  round  the 
track.  It  obscured  the  limits  of  the  burnt-up  coun 
try,  suffering  from  a  prolonged  drought,  during  a 
visit  to  a  State  fair  held  not  long  ago  at  the  capital 
of  one  of  our  Western  States.  The  Western  fair- 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  101 

grounds  are,  as  a  rule,  more  imposing  than  those  of 
the  East.  The  full-mile  track  looks  generous  and 
prosperous  when  compared  to  the  half-mile  tracks 
common  in  New  England,  although  these  again  have 
an  attraction  of  a  different  sort  in  their  casual  and 
informal  character.  The  Western  fair-grounds  are 
kept  in  perfect  condition,  and  have  a  smooth  and 
clean  appearance;  the  track  itself,  the  fences,  and 
outlying  stables  all  suggesting  an  agreeable  thrift 
and  prosperity.  They  look  best  in  a  flat  country,  as, 
for  instance,  at  Terre  Haute,  or  Springfield,  111.,  or 
in  an  undulating  country  like  blue-grass  Kentucky. 
The  track  at  Terre  Haute  is  particularly  clean  and 
smart;  that  at  Lexington  has  a  little  more  of  the 
Southern  negligence,  but  suggests,  nevertheless,  the 
easy-going  prosperity  of  that  country.  None  of  the 
fair-grounds  I  have  seen,  however,  are  smarter  and 
more  thorough  than  those  at  Springfield.  There  are 
similar  grounds  in  Iowa,  Minnesota,  and  other 
Western  States. 

During  a  week  spent  at  one  of  these  fairs,  I  was  in 
the  habit  of  going  to  the  fair-grounds  in  the  morning 
before  the  show  had  begun.  If  you  go  early  enough, 
you  will  have  the  stand  almost  to  yourself,  and  you 
may  sit  in  the  shade  and  see  the  horses  worJked. 
There  will  be,  perhaps,  a  dozen  of  them  being  jogged. 
You  will  see  their  legs  wink  around  the  track,  and 
hear  the  beat  of  their  hoofs,  thump,  thump,  thump 
(how  can  legs  and  feet  stand  it!),  as  their  feet  strike 
the  hard,  smooth  roadbed.  You  think  you  could 
close  your  eyes  and  tell  the  pacers  from  the  trotters 
by  the  sound  of  their  hoofs,  in  which  you  would 
probably  be  mistaken.  It  is  not  altogether  easy  at 
times  to  tell  pacers  from  trotters  with  your  eyes 


IO2  A  Virginian  Village 

open.  This  may  be  so  even  when  the  horse  is  right 
in  front  of  you;  at  the  distance  of  a  half  mile  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  tell  the  difference.  Indeed  the 
difference  is  less  marked  than  used  to  be  supposed. 
The  pacers  and  trotters  are  all  from  trotting  stock, 
the  pacing  habit,  however,  being  stronger  in  certain 
families  than  in  others.  The  trait  is  constantly 
coming  out  in  unexpected  ways.  In  Iowa  I  saw  a 
pacing-colt  out  of  a  trotting-mare,  and  by  a  trotting- 
horse,  and  he  was  the  fifth  pacing-colt  that  this  mare 
had  dropped,  all  by  trotting-horses.  I  saw  him  a  few 
hours  after  he  was  foaled.  I  clapped  my  hands  and 
ran  after  him,  and,  in  what  were  probably  the  first 
steps  of  his  earthly  pilgrimage  taken  out  of  a  walk, 
he  broke  into  a  pace.  The  trotting  instinct  is  just  as 
decided  and  original.  If  you  run  after  a  trotting- 
colt,  he  may  break  into  a  canter  to  get  away  from 
you,  but,  if  you  still  pursue  him,  he  will,  to  increase 
his  speed,  go  from  a  canter  into  a  trot.  How  close 
is  the  relation  between  the  two  gaits  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that  most  trotters  pace  and  most  pacers  trot. 
You  will  notice  on  the  track  that  pacers,  when  they 
go  slow,  trot,  and  trotters,  when  they  go  slow,  pace. 
The  whole  question  between  trotters  and  pacers 
is  very  interesting.  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  which 
is  the  handsomer  gait.  But  pacing  has  its  advan 
tages.  It  is  easier  for  the  animal.  It  is  sometimes 
said  that  pacing  is  the  device  of  short-bodied  horses 
to  prevent  interfering.  A  pacer  advances  both  legs 
on  the  same  side  at  once,  so  that  his  fore  leg  is  out  of 
the  way  when  he  advances  his  hind  leg.  A  trotter 
does  just  the  reverse.  He  advances  at  the  same  time 
the  fore  and  hind  legs  on  different  sides,  so  that  his 
fore  leg  may  be  in  the  way  when  he  advances  his 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  103 

hind  leg.  But  I  do  not  see  that  pacers  are  shorter 
bodied  than  trotters.  A  short-bodied  horse,  when 
trotting,  is  likely  to  avoid  interfering  by  resorting  to 
the  ugly  device  of  going  wide  behind.  My  belief  is 
that  pacing  is  the  expedient  of  the  animal  to  lessen 
the  shock  of  the  resistance  of  the  hard  ground  as  he 
increases  his  speed.  As  a  matter  of  fact  pacing  is  not 
so  hard  on  horses  as  trotting.  I  said  to  a  blacksmith 
in  a  Western  town,  a  devout  man  whose  prayers  and 
exhortations  I  had  heard  at  the  village  prayer- 
meeting  and  in  whose  hospitable  smithy  cooled  by 
some  umbrageous  maples,  I  loved  to  pass  the  morning 
hours;  a  very  nice  fellow,  from  whom  I  thought  I  got 
the  real  truth  a  little  straighter  than  from  anyone 
else  in  the  neighborhood:  "Now  this  is  a  great  coun 
try  for  harness-horses,  and  you  shoe  most  of  the 
horses  about  here  and  ought  to  know  their  feet  better 
than  anyone  else,  which  do  you  say  last  the  longest, 
the  feet  of  the  trotters  or  the  pacers?"  He  said, 
"Undoubtedly,  the  pacers." 

The  pacing  habit  is  common  among  animals. 
Many  animals  pace  or  at  any  rate  hit  the  ground  side- 
wise — cattle,  for  instance;  and,  among  dogs,  setters. 
I  think  you  will  observe  that  a  woman,  when  running 
for  a  street-car,  usually  paces,  although  this  is  prob 
ably  due  to  a  sense  that  it  is  the  more  feminine  and 
modest  method  of  progression.  I  believe  pacing  to 
be  a  rather  more  natural  gait  than  trotting.  Trot 
ting,  as  it  exists  in  our  fast  horses,  is  scarcely  a  nat 
ural  gait,  but  is  rather  the  result  of  breeding  and 
education.  Trotting  is  fast  walking,  and  it  is  not 
natural  that  a  horse  should  walk  at  the  rate  of  a  mile 
in  two  minutes  and  some  seconds.  The  natural 
change,  when  increasing  speed,  is  to  a  run,  the  next 


IO4  A  Virginian  Village 

most  natural  to  a  pace.  The  fact  that,  among  all 
horses  except  trotters,  the  record  is  held  by  stallions, 
whereas  among  trotters,  until  recently,  it  has  been 
always  held  by  mares  or  geldings,  is  an  indication 
that  the  gait  is  artificial.  (I  mean  speedy  trotting, 
of  course.) 

I  heard  a  story  of  what  you  would  call  a  natural 
pacer  from  a  young  man  sitting  by  me  in  the  stand 
one  morning.  This  horse,  when  he  broke,  would  go 
from  a  pace  into  a  gallop,  but,  when  he  ran  away, 
he  would  go  from  a  gallop  into  a  pace,  and  would 
pace  over  everything,  over  the  tops  of  fences,  taking 
the  sulky  with  him.  It  is  pleasant  to  hear  a  yarn 
like  this  on  a  bright  morning  from  a  chance  com 
panion,  a  sociable  and  apparently  truthful  fellow — 
the  horses  meantime  jogging  back  and  forth  in  front 
of  you.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  such  exchange  of 
criticism  and  anecdote  among  the  experts  sitting 
together,  stop-watches  in  hand,  to  whom  the  history 
of  the  horses  is  known. 

Let  me  say  here  that  trotting,  whether  natural  or 
not,  is  certainly  beautiful,  and  that  the  trotting-turf 
is  worthy  of  preservation  and  encouragement,  as  the 
fly-wheel  in  which  is  stored  up,  to  be  dealt  out  as 
needed,  the  fine  trotting  action  of  our  steppers. 

Later  in  the  morning  the  judging  begins;  and  then 
is  done  much  of  the  less  popular,  but  still,  very  im 
portant  and  scientific  judging,  such  as  the  judging  of 
sheep,  cattle,  and  other  animals  for  breeding  pur 
poses.  There  are  in  a  class  three  or  four  big  bulls, 
very  stately  and  handsome,  and  looking  extremely 
bored.  "Do  you  know  anything  about  cattle?" 
I  said  to  one  of  the  most  noted  horsemen  in  the  coun 
try,  who  was  standing  by.  He  said:  "Nothing  what- 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  105 

ever,"  and  no  doubt  he  thought  so.  But  presently 
I  heard  him  say,  contemptuously  and  with  some 
feeling:  "That  bull  has  a  very  common  face."  The 
incident  illustrated  the  closeness  of  stockmen  to 
animal  life,  which  is  so  novel  and  pleasing  to  men 
from  town. 

The  judging  of  trotting-horses  and  the  trotting 
and  pacing  races  are  reserved  for  the  afternoon, 
when  the  crowd  comes.  Ordinarily  not  much  is  made 
of  saddle-horses  at  Western  fairs.  But  about  a  dozen 
Kentucky  and  Missouri  horses  had  been  brought 
here,  and  at  the  saddle-horse  competition  in  the 
afternoon  three  or  four  good  ones  appeared  and  a 
half-dozen  tolerable  ones.  The  three  or  four  good 
ones  were  much  of  a  kind,  and  one  was  put  to  one's 
trumps  to  make  up  one's  mind  among  them.  The 
little  bay  was  the  best,  and  next  to  him  the  chestnut; 
and  yet  you  were  a  little  perplexed,  not  quite  sure, 
and  you  probed  the  depths  of  your  consciousness 
in  search  of  the  nicest  and  most  exact  justice. 

But  what  is  this  approaching,  quite  ten  minutes 
late? — a  black  stallion,  head  up  and  ambling  forward 
in  a  leisurely  manner  and  with  reprehensible  swagger 
and  an  expression  of  laying  out  the  whole  field.  It 
is  the  famous  Rex  McDonald.  No  need  now  to  probe 
the  depths  of  your  consciousness,  for  by  the  vote  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  multitude  look 
ing  on,  the  blue  ribbon  must  go  to  him. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  crowds  increase,  the 
grand  stand  becomes  a  dense  mass  of  people,  and 
there  are  crowds  of  people  everywhere  about  the 
grounds.  To  save  time  the  various  races  are  run  to 
gether.  After  the  first  heat  of  a  trotting-race  has 
been  run,  and  while  the  trotters,  having  been  rubbed 


io6  A  Virginian  Village 

down  and  blanketed,  are  being  led  to  cool  off,  the 
first  heat  of  a  pacing-race  is  run.  An  odd  five  minutes 
between  races  is  utilized  to  give  a  bay  trotting- 
stallion  a  chance  to  make  a  record.  If  he  can  do  the 
mile  in  2.30,  it  is  a  great  thing  for  Flanagan  II.,  the 
horse  in  question — much  too  handsome  a  creature, 
by  the  way,  to  wear  such  a  name.  Few  people  pay 
attention  to  this;  the  crowd  regards  it  as  a  kind  of 
recess;  but  it  is  very  amusing  to  me.  Can  he  do  it? 
He  makes  his  way  around  the  mile,  doing  pretty 
well,  you  think.  If  you  have  no  stop-watch,  or  are 
not  skilful  in  the  use  of  one,  you  must  wait  for  the 
result  from  the  judges'  stand.  He  has  missed  it. 
From  the  stand  are  displayed  the  figures  2.31^. 
But  he  will  have  a  chance  later  on.  After  another 
pacing  heat,  the  bay  again  appears.  This  time  he 
has  it.  The  judges  hang  out  2.29^. 

I  could  get  a  better  view  of  the  more  important 
judging  and  racing  by  going  down  to  the  judges' 
stand,  to  the  neighborhood  of  which  my  press  badge 
admitted  me.  I  sat  down  on  the  steps  leading  up  to 
the  stand,  by  two  little  bare-footed  boys,  without 
jackets,  and  with  one  suspender  each,  who  had  got 
there  in  some  way  known  to  themselves,  and  were 
trusting  to  their  insignificance  to  be  allowed  to 
remain,  and  to  that  gift  of  invisibility  which  the 
small  boy,  himself  all  eyes  and  ears,  shares  with  the 
divinities  of  Homeric  story  when  they  mix  themselves 
up  in  human  actions.  But  presently  one  of  the 
starters  spied  them.  I  don't  mean  the  chief  man  who 
does  the  starting,  the  big,  handsome,  ruddy-visaged 
old  man,  with  the  stentor  voice,  who,  with  his  hand 
on  the  bell,  shouts  to  the  crowd  of  rushing  chariot 
eers,  each  trying  to  get  some  unfair  advantage: 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  107 

"Keep  back  that  pole  horse;  if  you  gentlemen  don't 
stop  that,  I'll  fine  you  twenty-five  dollars."  (This 
is  not  at  all  an  empty  threat;  he  will  do  it,  and  much 
more,  if  he  is  sufficiently  provoked.)  It  was  not  he, 
but  one  of  his  assistants  who  caught  sight  of  the  boys, 
and  drove  them  off  with  the  words:  "The  next  thing 
you  boys'll  be  wanting  to  keep  time."  The  cruel 
sarcasm  sped  after  the  little  retreating  figures.  You 
could  see  the  blighting  effects  of  the  taunt  in  their 
ragged  backs  and  dirty  little  heels,  as  they  moved 
away.  They  to  keep  time! 

There  were  sixty  thousand  people  there  the  after 
noon  Star  Pointer  and  Joe  Patchen  paced.  The 
entrance-fee  was  fifty  cents,  so  that  the  fair  could  well 
afford  to  pay  the  owners  of  these  horses  four  thousand 
dollars  for  a  single  race.  They  got  this  besides  the 
stake.  I  saw  the  horses  worked  around  the  track  in 
the  morning.  I  think  I  never  got  from  any  horse 
such  an  impression  of  leonine  power  as  from  Joe 
Patchen,  when  he  was  ambling  before  the  sulky  at 
five  miles  an  hour.  I  saw  the  first  two  heats  from 
the  stand,  and,  after  the  second  heat,  crossed  over 
into  the  enclosure  which  the  track  surrounds,  where 
they  were  rubbing  down  the  horses.  To  see  a  trotter 
rubbed  down  after  a  race  is  of  the  nature  of  a  moral 
Turkish  bath  to  the  observer.  The  combination  of 
sun  heat  and  animal  heat  is  very  strong;  the  heat 
of  the  animal  sensibly  raises  the  temperature  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  the  horse.  Under  the 
fine  dripping  coat,  from  which  the  groom  tosses  off 
the  perspiration  with  a  scraper,  the  network  of  veins 
distends.  Those  upon  the  small,  bony  head  are 
fullest,  the  refined  face  wet  and  black  with  sweat,  and 
the  large,  melancholy  eye  rolling  with  the  luxury  of 


io8  A  Virginian  Village 

the  rubbing.  A  certain  pride  is  noticeable  in  the 
group  standing  about,  a  sense  that  this  is  a  significant 
and  important  occasion.  "That  is  Star  Pointer,"  is 
the  thought  of  each  of  the  little  crowd  of  touts,  small 
boys,  darkies,  and  tramps  looking  on. 

Leaving  Star  Pointer  in  the  hands  of  the  rubbers,  I 
crossed  to  the  side  of  the  track  opposite  the  stand, 
where  John  Hughes's  saddle-horses  were  stabled. 
Hughes  brought  out  Rex  McDonald  for  me  to  see — 
Hughes  himself,  a  fine  example  of  what  blue-grass 
Kentucky  can  do  in  the  way  of  raising  men.  He 
stood  there,  tall,  deep-chested,  and  broad-shouldered, 
his  chest  the  broader  for  the  great  expanse  of  shirt- 
front,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  gigantic  diamond 
pin  that  made  one  think  of  the  big  Kentucky  prices. 
Rex  McDonald  is  a  singularly  beautiful  horse.  He  is 
thick  in  the  shoulder,  being  in  this  respect  like  his 
father,  Black  Squirrel,  which  great  horse  the  Garrett 
boys  showed  me  in  Kentucky  when  I  was  there  just 
before  his  death.  I  suppose  they  called  him  Black 
Squirrel  because  of  the  high  tail  he  carried.  Rex 
McDonald  has  the  light  Kentucky  cannon-bone,  of 
which  one  can  only  say  that  one  could  wish  it  were 
heavier,  and  yet  that  it  does  not  seem  to  matter  very 
much.  I  was  sorry,  however,  that  I  could  not  con 
vince  myself  that  he  was  able  to  trot  squarely.  Nor 
could  one  of  the  eleven  gaited  horses  trot  quite  true 
and  square. 

I  should  add,  however,  that  I  was  somewhat  un 
fortunate  in  this  experience.  I  have  seen  Kentucky 
horses  and,  for  that  matter,  gaited  horses  from  va 
rious  parts  of  the  country,  that  were  good  single- 
footers,  and  could  also  trot  square.  Lou  Chief  is 
such  an  animal.  She  will  rack  up  the  street,  and  turn 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  109 

round,  and  trot  back  perfectly  square.  The  ability 
to  do  this  I  have  always  found  rare,  and  have  ac 
cepted  it  as  an  indication  of  great  natural  cleverness 
in  the  horse.  But  I  have,  of  late,  seen  reason  to 
modify  my  notions  upon  this  subject.  My  view 
used  to  be  that,  while  there  could  be  no  objection  to 
teaching  a  horse  to  singlefoot  if  it  did  not  spoil  his 
trot,  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  did  almost  always  spoil  his 
trot,  and  that  it  was,  therefore,  best  not  to  teach  it. 
But  I  have,  of  late,  been  surprised  to  see  many  horses 
that  could  both  singlefoot  and  trot.  Now,  if  we  can 
have  singlefoot  without  spoiling  the  trot,  it  is  cer 
tainly  desirable  to  have  it.  The  habit  of  riding  con 
tinually  at  a  trot  is  hard  upon  horses'  feet,  legs,  and 
shoulders.  It  is  better  to  vary  the  trot  with  a  canter, 
and  still  further  with  singlefooting.  Whether  single- 
footing  is  easier  upon  horses  than  trotting,  as  pacing 
is,  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is. 
In  a  singlefoot  there  is  the  same  lateral  contact  with 
the  ground  as  in  a  pace.  It  is  hard  to  tell,  by  watch 
ing  him,  what  a  singlefooter  does  with  his  feet;  if 
you  attempt  it,  you  will  probably  end  by  looking  in 
the  dictionary.  [How  the  dictionary  man  found  it 
out  is  none  of  your  business.]  It  is,  of  course,  a  highly 
artificial  gait.  As  for  the  comfort  of  it,  I  have  known 
some  singlefooters  in  whom  the  gait  was  a  lullaby. 
As  we  stood  there  a  colored  man  from  Missouri 
rode  by  on  a  stallion  that  had  been  shown  that 
afternoon.  I  said:  "That  Missouri  horse  ought  to 
have  got  something."  Hughes  answered,  with  that 
rough  and  friendly  tone  of  Kentucky  banter:  "Why, 
man,  where  are  your  eyes;  look  at  his  hocks! "  They 
were  a  little  rough.  We  were  standing  by  Rex  Mc 
Donald,  discussing  him  and  his  history,  when  Star 


no  A  Virginian  Village 

Pointer  and  Joe  Patchen  were  seen  approaching 
in  the  third  and  final  heat.  They  thundered  past  us 
about  twenty  feet  away.  The  young  reporters  spoke 
of  Star  Pointer  as  moving  like  a  lion,  in  which  they 
were  wide  of  the  mark.  A  pacer  may  rarely  be  said 
to  go  like  a  lion,  pacing  being  a  less  animated  gait 
than  trotting.  I  noticed,  as  he  went  by,  that  Star 
Pointer's  action  was  particularly  placid.  He  moved 
with  the  equanimity  of  a  fish  paddling  with  its  fins  in 
clear,  still  water.  But  he  did  that  heat  in  two  min 
utes. 

The  very  hot  weather  that  prevailed  at  the  fair 
may  have  helped  these  horses  to  make  this  low  record. 
The  fair  was  held  early  in  October,  but  the  weather 
was  as  hot  as  August,  quite  90  degrees  in  the  shade. 
There  had  been  a  drought  that  had  lasted  for  weeks, 
months  even.  As  you  drove  about  the  country,  you 
could  hardly  see  the  land  for  the  dust.  The  corn 
fields  were  burnt  up,  and  even  the  woods  parched  in 
their  inmost  recesses.  Everywhere  there  was  the 
utmost  vegetable  disarray  and  confusion.  Ceres 
stood  in  tatters  in  the  cornfields.  The  red  and  yellow 
apples  shone  like  flames  amid  the  sun-dried  foliage  of 
the  orchards  and  lay  thick  upon  the  ground.  The 
pumpkins  were  heaped  up  or  rolled  about  the  fields, 
and  the  almost  naked  corn-stalks,  upon  which  a  few 
dry  blades  rattled  in  the  dust-laden  wind,  held  up 
their  burden  of  ripe  ears.  And  yet,  hot  and  arid  as  it 
was,  you  had  a  sense  of  great  agricultural  wealth. 
The  heat,  of  which  the  oldest  inhabitant  did  not 
remember  the  like,  seemed  unnatural  and  unprec 
edented.  My  notion  was  that  the  chariot  of  the 
Sun-god  had  veered  from  his  course,  and  passed 
nearer  our  planet,  burning  up  the  fields  and  wood- 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  1 1 1 

lands  and,  from  his  heaped-up  cornucopia,  scattering 
the  earth  with  litter  and  largess  of  autumn  fruitful- 
ness.  For  some  reason  the  old  classical  fables  were 
always  in  my  head.  I  fancied  that  the  divinities  of 
the  ancient  world,  which  were  after  all  borrowed  by 
the  Romans  from  the  Greeks,  had  found  in  this 
stretch  of  flat  prairie  a  most  appropriate  theatre  for 
their  activities.  In  particular  the  old  myth  of  Proser 
pine  and  the  struggle  between  the  powers  of  the 
upper  and  the  lower  worlds  became  very  real  to  me. 
I  never  saw  the  struggle  so  fierce  before.  Ordinary 
autumn  warm  weather  is  even  more  suggestive  of  the 
end  of  the  summer  than  cold  winds  and  rain  are. 
You  walk  out  under  the  trees  of  a  warm  autumn 
afternoon,  the  atmosphere  a  golden  fluid,  perfectly 
still.  The  maple  leaves,  of  a  pale  and  dying  verdure, 
scarcely  stir.  There  is  no  air  to  move  even  the  spider- 
woven  film  that  depends  from  the  branches.  The 
whole  scene,  of  a  sicklied  yellow,  reminds  one  of  some 
fruit,  fair  and  ripe  at  the  rind,  but  with  disease  and 
death  at  the  core.  The  hot  weather  of  those  October 
days  was  not  at  all  of  this  feeble  and  apologetic 
character.  I  thought  rather  that  the  powers  of  life 
had  sent  a  fiery  challenge  to  Pluto,  deep  under  his 
crust  of  twelve-foot  thick  black  prairie;  that  there 
would  be  no  more  winter;  that  this  time  the  daughter 
of  Ceres  would  not  be  given  back — for  Proserpine, 
long  due  in  the  underworld,  still  wandered  among  the 
corn-shucks  and  pumpkin-vines  of  Sangamon  and 
Cass  Counties. 

I  thought  I  could  see  the  results  of  the  agricultural 
wealth  of  the  country  in  the  looks  of  the  people. 
The  rich  soil  had  brought  prosperity  and  with  it 
good  food  and  lodging,  which  are  causes  of  beauty 


112  A  Virginian  Village 

in  human  beings  as  in  other  animals.  The  average 
of  good  looks,  both  among  men  and  women,  impressed 
me  as  very  high,  and  I  saw  many  beautiful  children. 
I  had  one  opportunity  of  making  a  somewhat  closer 
acquaintance  with  the  people  than  would  usually 
fall  to  the  lot  of  a  stranger.  It  was  my  habit  to 
spend  the  whole  day  at  the  fair-grounds,  coming 
early  and  staying  till  night.  It  was,  therefore,  neces 
sary  for  me  to  dine  there,  and  the  moving  about 
among  the  live  stock  made  one  hungry  by  noon. 
Most  of  the  stands  offered  food  of  an  untidy  appear 
ance.  But  I  saw,  nailed  up  on  a  tree,  a  notice  that 
the  ladies  of  the  First  Methodist  Church  would, 
for  fifty  cents,  give  a  dinner  at  the  south  end  of  the 
Steam  Plough  exhibit.  Now,  I  was  brought  up  in 
that  denomination  and  I  am  not  without  my  de 
nominational  preferences  and  sympathies,  and  I  had 
an  instinct  that  the  proposition  of  the  ladies  of  the 
First  Methodist  Church  was  one  to  close  with.  I 
walked  through  an  interminable  collection  of  agri 
cultural  machinery,  at  the  end  of  which  I  found  the 
pavilion  in  which  the  dinner  was  given.  At  the  door 
there  sat  the  figure  of  a  large  and  statuesque  young 
woman  with  a  handsome  and  benignant  counte 
nance,  her  lap  full  of  silver  dollars  and  half  dollars. 
What,  I  thought,  some  more  mythology!  Is  this 
Fortune?  Are  you  Plenty?  She  looked  precisely 
as  if  taken  from  a  book  of  classical  woodcuts.  The 
countenance  was  handsome  enough  and  the  figure 
noble  enough  for  one  of  the  lady  deities  of  Olympus, 
but  she  wore  upon  her  lips  an  expression  of  benignity, 
to  find  the  like  of  which  you  must  go  to  the  canvases 
of  Christian  art.  I  take  it  that  those  Olympian 
ladies  were  very  well  as  long  as  you  pleased  them, 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  113 

but  they  had  a  rough  side  and  could,  upon  occasion, 
be  most  unkind;  witness  the  treatment  of  Paris  by 
Juno  and  of  Adonis  by  Venus — egotistical  actions, 
unrestrained  by  a  sentiment  of  pity  or  considerations 
of  abstract  justice,  which  would  now  receive  the 
severe  condemnation,  not  only  of  the  graduates  of 
Girton  and  Wellesley  and  other  representatives  of 
the  higher  education,  but  of  every  tea-table  through 
out  the  Christian  world.  For,  say  what  you  will, 
since  our  era,  woman,  from  her  background  of  hope, 
innocence,  and  an  instructed  ethical  sense  (these 
qualities  gathering  force  and  refinement  through 
the  ages),  has  looked  upon  mankind  with  an  exquisite 
natural  kindness,  a  radiant  innate  joy  and  keen, 
fine  light  of  the  intelligence  and  the  affections  not 
to  be  found  in  quite  the  same  kind  and  degree  among 
the  women  of  the  heathen  world,  so  vaunted  by 
artists  and  poets.  So  much  I  thought  I  discerned  in 
the  countenance  of  the  young  woman  who  was  the 
doorkeeper  of  the  truly  benevolent  institution  with 
which  I  now  made  acquaintance.  But  to  what 
flight  of  the  fancy  is  a  hungry  man  not  equal  who 
sees  around  him  indications  that  he  is  about  to  have 
a  good  dinner?  The  table-cloth  was  spotless  and  the 
plates  and  glasses  clean.  The  food,  I  found  upon 
nearer  acquaintance,  very  clean  and  Christian,  and 
with  a  flavor  of  domesticity.  The  chicken  and  vege 
tables  were  good,  and  the  ice-cream  grateful  in  the 
terrific  weather.  We  were  waited  upon  by  some 
half-dozen  young  ladies  who,  as  they  handed  you 
these  excellent  dishes,  beamed  upon  you  and  kept 
on  beaming,  their  voices  in  the  meantime  very 
charming  with  their  invitations  and  excuses. 

It  is  unusual  to  find  so  many  saddle-horses  at  a 


114  A  Virginian  Village 

Western  fair  as  there  were  here.  You  find  them  at 
the  fairs  in  Tennessee,  Kentucky,  and  Missouri. 
In  Indiana,  Illinois,  or  Iowa  you  would  ordinarily 
see  but  few  of  them.  These  would  be  from  the  trot 
ting  stock  of  the  country.  In  Kentucky  they  get 
many  saddle-horses  from  this  stock,  and  there  is  no 
reason  why  this  should  not  be  done  in  other  parts. 
Among  trotters  anywhere  you  will  see  from  time  to 
time  an  animal  with  the  neck  and  shoulders  of  a 
saddle-horse,  and  the  right  kind  of  hock  action.  You 
can  make  a  good  saddle-horse  out  of  such  an  animal, 
although  I  am  told  by  breeders  and  trainers  that  it 
takes  somewhat  longer  to  do  this  than  with  the  regu 
lar  saddle-bred  Denmark  horse  or  with  thorough 
breds.  Of  course,  thoroughbreds  anywhere  can  be 
made  into  saddle-horses.  There  are  a  certain  num 
ber  of  thoroughbred  stallions  scattered  throughout 
the  Western  country,  and  from  one  of  their  colts 
you  may  now  and  then  get  a  good  saddle-horse.  I 
saw  in  Iowa  a  singularly  interesting  example  of  this 
kind  of  horse.  He  was  that  rare  combination — a 
thoroughbred  head  and  neck  set  upon  a  body  of 
extra  substance.  Old  English  prints  constantly 
represent  this  horse;  they  show  him  as  a  hunter  and 
as  a  harness-horse.  The  walls  of  stables  are  covered 
with  representations  of  him.  Of  course,  you  may 
have  as  many  pictures  of  him  as  you  like,  but  of  the 
animal  himself  you  will  not  see  one  in  ten  thousand. 
The  horse  at  this  fair  was  as  good  a  specimen  of  the 
type  as  I  have  seen  in  this  country  or  in  England, 
and  good  enough  to  be  in  a  picture.  He  had  the  long, 
tapering  neck  of  a  thoroughbred,  with  that  little 
bend  near  the  head,  and  was  beautifully  cut  out  in 
the  throat.  He  was  very  handsomely  marked  be- 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  115 

sides — a  red  chestnut,  with  four  white  stockings  up 
to  his  knees.  The  prejudice  against  white  feet,  by 
the  way,  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  is  well  it  is 
so,  as  there  are  so  many  white  feet.  Lincoln  said,  "I 
believe  that  God  must  have  liked  plain  people  or  He 
would  not  have  made  so  many  of  them."  One  can 
not  help  thinking  that  God  must  like  white  feet  on 
horses,  or  He  would  not  have  made  so  many  of  them. 
Some  clever  person  should,  before  this,  have  ex 
plained  the  reason  of  the  prevalence  of  this  marking; 
just  as  the  reason  of  the  white  tips  on  dogs'  tails  has 
been  explained  to  be  that  the  dogs,  when  in  a  wild 
state  and  members  of  a  pack,  might  signal  to  one 
another  over  the  top  of  the  tall  grass.  Mr.  Wilfrid 
Blunt  tells  me  that  the  Arabs  admired  white  mark 
ings,  and  bred  for  them,  which  is  a  perfect  explana 
tion.  Modern  taste  has  accepted  the  marking  as 
good  for  purposes  of  decoration,  certainly  in  the  case 
of  chestnut  horses.  There  is  an  agreement  between 
white  and  chestnut,  either  red  or  dark  (liver-colored). 
Anyone  must  have  been  pleased  by  the  association 
of  white  with  liver-color  or  chocolate  on  the  back  of  a 
pointer  dog.  The  combination  of  these  colors  on 
horses  is  just  as  good,  and  the  combination  of  white 
with  red  chestnut,  or  even  sorrel,  is  still  more 
brilliant. 

As  a  rule,  however,  harness-horses  rather  than 
saddle-horses  are  to  be  found  at  these  fairs.  The 
horses  most  in  evidence  are,  of  course,  the  speed 
horses  entered  in  the  trotting  and  pacing  races. 
Besides  them  there  are  the  horses  for  breeding  pur 
poses,  the  trotting,  hackney,  and  French  coach 
stallions  and  the  brood  mares,  with  their  colts. 
But  there  are  also  a  limited  number  of  horses  ready 


n6  A  Virginian  Village 

for  market,  coach  and  carnage  horses,  horses  for 
dogcarts,  etc.  There  are  not  many  such,  as  the 
purpose  of  these  fairs  is  different  from  that  of  a 
horse-show;  but  the  few  there  are  you  see  under 
natural  and  attractive  conditions. 

I  saw  the  black  mare,  South  Africa,  at  one  of 
these  fairs,  her  great  attraction  being  the  buoyant 
strength  and  momentum  with  which  she  moved. 
She  took  many  prizes  throughout  the  West  last 
summer.  The  first  time  I  saw  her  was  one  after 
noon  on  the  track  at  the  fair-grounds  at  Toronto, 
which  are  beautifully  situated  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Ontario.  It  was  about  four  o'clock,  and  the  sun 
was  shining.  I  was  looking  over  the  track,  out 
toward  the  water,  which  was  blue,  but  not  with  the 
bold,  salt  blue  of  the  ocean.  In  the  place  of  this, 
the  lake  had  a  color  the  like  of  which  I  might  have 
expected  to  see  on  a  vase  or  jar,  but  not  on  water. 
The  blue  of  the  ocean  was  dulled  or  clouded  to  a 
delicious  hue,  of  a  kind  to  baffle  the  imagination  and 
elude  the  memory  of  the  poet  and  to  vex,  with  its 
exquisite  precision,  the  emulous  soul  of  the  painter. 
A  big  schooner  was  moving  upon  the  water,  the  sun 
glistening  upon  the  bellying  sails,  as  if  upon  cumulus 
cloud,  the  swelling  canvas,  of  a  fairy  grace  and  light 
ness,  flung  to  the  midsummer  zephyrs — the  whole 
white  mass  of  piled-up  sail  sliding  along  this  plain  of 
blue  china.  The  black  mare  was  moving  between 
me  and  this  scene.  But  better  still  I  saw  her  the 
next  morning,  when  the  lake  was  flashing  under  the 
sun  and  had  the  freshness  and  freedom  of  that  part 
of  the  day.  She  was  descending  a  slight  declivity — 
the  tan-bark  rings  of  indoor  horse-shows  have  no 
declivities — with  an  abundant  and  steady  force  and 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  117 

that  ease  which  is  the  condition  of  all  beauty  in 
action. 

This  mare  was  hackney  bred,  by  the  way,  and  she 
had  unusual  speed  for  an  animal  of  that  breeding. 
There  has  been  of  late  years  a  good  deal  of  talk 
against  hackneys.  But  there  is  a  place  for  these 
horses.  It  is  said  that  they  have  not  the  force  and 
courage  of  trotters.  That  may  be,  but  for  that  rea 
son  they  may  suit  people  who  wish  especially  to 
have  safe  and  quiet  horses.  An  Englishman,  who 
has  been  a  great  exhibitor  of  show  horses  in  this 
country,  and  who  began  with  a  natural  preference 
for  hackneys,  told  me  that  he  now  preferred  trotters. 
As  showing  the  superiority  in  courage  of  trotters,  he 
said  that,  when  his  trotters  were  lying  down  in  the 
stall,  he  could  get  them  up  with  a  word,  but  that  he 
had  to  take  a  whip  to  get  the  hackneys  up.  I  don't 
see  that  that  objection  would  be  serious  to  people 
anxious  to  have  safe  horses,  which  are  at  the  same 
time  strong,  handsome,  and  have  good  action,  qual 
ities  which  hackneys  certainly  have.  A  breeder  of 
hackneys  to  whom  I  mentioned  this  incident  said: 
"What  nonsense  that  is!"  And  he  added:  "Of 
course  hackneys  have  not  great  speed,  but  they  can 
go  as  fast  as  carriage-horses  ought  to  go."  He  made 
this  further  claim  for  hackneys,  that  he  could  win 
in  the  show-ring  with  a  mare  or  gelding  of  hackney 
breeding,  while  nearly  all  the  trotting-bred  prize 
winners  are  stags — that  is,  animals  kept  as  stallions 
long  enough  to  get  the  crest  of  a  stallion.  I  believe 
it  is  true  that  most  trotting-bred  prize-winners  are 
stags,  and  that  hackney  mares  sometimes  win,  as 
was  the  case  with  this  black  mare  at  Toronto,  which 
also  took  first  prize  at  the  Syracuse  State  Fair. 


u8  A  Virginian  Village 

This  mare  was  brought  to  the  last  New  York 
horse-show,  and  got  nothing  but  the  gate.  She  was 
not  fine  enough  in  the  head  and  neck,  and  was  too 
short  in  the  neck,  I  suppose.  I  dare  say  the  judges 
were  quite  right.  They  must  act  upon  certain  ac 
cepted  principles.  And  yet  these  rule-of-thumb 
verdicts  are  not  always  consistent  with  the  most 
ideal  and  delicate  justice. 

A  horse-show  verdict  is  obtained  in  this  way,  and 
it  is,  perhaps,  the  only  way  possible:  You  reduce 
conformation,  manners,  and  action  to  their  simplest 
terms,  add,  subtract,  divide,  and  so  on,  and  thus 
get  a  result.  But  can  a  very  beautiful  quality  be 
always  truly  judged  in  this  way?  Is  there  a  least 
common  denominator  for  the  ultimate  graces  of 
motion  or  of  outline?  The  attraction  of  the  animal 
of  which  I  have  been  speaking  was  her  rhythmical 
and  buoyant  way  of  moving.  You  cannot  subtract 
apples  from  oranges;  nor  can  you  subtract  action, 
such  action  as  hers  at  any  rate,  from  conformation. 
I  own,  however,  that  she  did  not  move  in  the  Garden 
as  she  did  when  I  saw  her  at  Toronto.  There  was 
not  room  for  her  to  get  the  swing  and  freedom  of 
her  step. 

In  speaking  of  the  prairie  country  I  have,  perhaps, 
given  the  idea  of  a  vast  level  manufactory  of  food 
for  men  and  horses.  But  prairie  scenery  is  not 
always  of  this  character.  One  afternoon  I  passed, 
in  the  train,  over  the  country  between  Chicago  and 
the  Mississippi.  That  is  what  is  called  a  rolling 
country,  and  hills  usually  limit  a  country.  But  it 
is  not  so  in  that  region,  for  the  landscape  is  always 
broad  and  spacious.  It  is  what  I  should  call  a 
swelling  country.  From  the  point  at  which  you  are, 


A  Horse-Fair  Pilgrimage  119 

it  appears  to  rise  in  all  directions  to  its  limits,  which 
are  very  remote.  All  the  way  across  the  country 
the  scenery  is  of  the  same  stately  kind.  The  sus 
tained  and  equal  character  of  it  is  itself  a  source  of 
pleasure.  For  six  hours  the  panorama  was  unrolled 
and  moved  past  me  with  an  unceasing  pomp  and 
grandeur,  most  comfortable  to  the  passive  eye  and 
mind — the  distant  hills,  crowned  with  clumps  of 
neat  woodland,  having  a  slowness  of  motion  that  was 
noble  and  imposing.  During  the  whole  afternoon 
I  was  in  a  pleasant  trance,  nor  was  the  charm  broken 
throughout  the  journey.  On  either  side  of  the 
railroad  there  were  vast  cornfields.  The  corn  that 
year  had  been  unusually  fine,  and  the  time  was  mid- 
August,  when  this  crop  is  most  luxuriant.  The  eye 
was  never  tired  of  the  profusion  of  dark  green  blades, 
nor  of  the  graceful  sweep  of  the  curves,  in  which  the 
corn  dips  and  rises  as  it  follows  the  lay  of  the  ground. 
I  long  tried  to  find  the  color  of  the  tasselled  sheen 
upon  the  surface  of  the  corn.  It  was  just  after  sun 
set  when  we  crossed  the  Mississippi.  The  sun  had 
dropped  behind  some  dark  green  hills  to  the  west  of 
the  river,  and  had  left  upon  their  crests  a  beacon  of 
clean,  red  flame,  enriching  the  dark  verdure  of  the 
hillsides.  The  river  itself,  I  found,  had  not  the 
doleful  sublimity  it  has  farther  South,  but  rather 
the  limpid  and  gentle  character  of  Northern  streams 
in  summer. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  LINCOLN 

SOME  years  ago  I  went  to  the  State  Fair  at 
Springfield,  111.  The  object  of  my  visit  was 
to  see  the  horses  there,  and  I  wrote  an  account 
of  them  for  a  magazine.  But  while  there  I  became 
more  than  ever  interested  in  another  subject.  Lin 
coln  is  the  most  representative  and  characteristic  of 
American  great  men.  In  no  other  man  does  the 
national  character  see  itself  so  illustrated  and  digni 
fied.  The  description  of  his  mind  and  nature  will 
always  be  an  inviting  task  to  the  American.  I  do 
not  doubt  that  in  the  future  every  artist,  every  poet, 
every  critic,  will  wish  to  try  his  hand  at  him.  I  be 
came  possessed  of  a  strong  desire  to  try  mine. 

Certainly  the  visitor  to  Springfield  does  not  forget 
that  he  lived  there.  Wherever  I  went  I  could  feel 
the  presence  of  that  mighty  and  kindly  shade,  which 
seemed  to  stand  in  the  midst  of  the  flat  country,  like 
some  colossal  monument  visible  everywhere.  The 
character  of  the  country  itself,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
appropriate  to  Lincoln.  His  people  had  come  west 
ward  over  the  Virginia  and  Kentucky  mountains, 
and  after  various  sojournings  in  Kentucky  and  In 
diana,  had  found  their  way  to  this  region.  The  mi 
gration  was  a  fortunate  one.  This  prairie  country, 
less  fitted  to  please  poets  and  artists  than  to  breed 
and  raise  men,  was  a  more  appropriate  home  for  him 
than  any  mountain  region  with  hills  too  steep  for 
the  plough  would  have  been.  His  genius  was  nour 
ished  by  the  rude  plenty  and  success  of  the  new 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  121 

country.  The  contagious  well-being  and  happiness 
of  the  thrifty,  money-producing  neighborhood  were 
good  for  him.  The  power  and  audacity  of  his  humor, 
that  humor,  which  had  something  of  the  reckless 
wealth  of  the  prairie  vegetation,  I  thought,  was  in 
some  degree  the  result  of  a  bringing  up  among  a  suc 
cessful  and  a  happy  people. 

Then  for  his  education  in  knowledge  of  men  and 
in  the  acquisition  of  skill  in  their  control,  the  society 
that  occupied  as  much  of  level  country  as  could  be 
seen  from  the  court-house  cupola  was  sufficient. 
What  better  training  as  an  observer  and  leader  of 
men  and  as  a  politician  could  he  have  had  than  was 
afforded  him  by  his  daily  business  of  advising  farmers 
who  came  to  consult  with  him  about  their  affairs 
and  of  dealing  with  and  handling  juries.  Men  are 
much  the  same  everywhere  and  may  be  learned  as 
well  in  one  place  as  another.  Young  men  are  apt  to 
think  that  knowing  men  means  wide  travel  or  know 
ing  celebrated  people  or  people  who  are  in  the  news 
papers;  whereas  some  old  rustic,  who  has  rarely  been 
out  of  sight  of  his  own  village,  may  know  men  far 
better  than  much  travelled  people  or  so-called  men 
of  the  world,  because  he  has  the  head  and  the  eyes 
for  the  study. 

I  tried  to  learn  something  from  the  older  people 
of  Lincoln  in  his  everyday  life  in  Springfield.  But 
I  heard  only  this  at  first  hand.  A  lawyer,  who  had 
been  as  a  young  man  in  Lincoln's  office,  said  to  me: 
"Old  man  Lincoln  thought  a  good  deal  of  money. 
When  we  were  on  a  case  together  and  the  jury  were 
out  and  the  client  in  court,  Lincoln  would  say:  'You 
had  better  try  and  get  your  money  now.  If  the  jury 
comes  in  with  a  verdict  for  him,  you  won't  get  any- 


122  A  Virginian  Village 

thing.'"  This,  as  he  said,  was  "fatherly"  on  the 
part  of  Lincoln.  He  did  not  wish  the  youngster  to 
lose  his  money. 

This  country  had  another  celebrated  man,  who 
was  very  unlike  Lincoln,  the  type,  indeed,  of  men 
who  are  just  the  reverse  of  him.  It  is  odd  that  these 
two  men  should  have  come  from  the  same  neighbor 
hood,  one  the  most  constructive  and  beneficent  of 
American  statesmen,  the  other  the  man  who,  whether 
from  blindness  and  want  of  foresight  or  because  he 
preferred  his  own  ambitions  to  the  interests  of  his 
country,  did  more  harm  than  any  other  man  who 
ever  lived  in  the  country.  When  I  was  a  boy  at 
school  in  Washington,  I  often  saw  Stephen  A.  Doug 
las.  He  was  a  very  short  man,  almost  a  dwarf. 
But  he  had  more  presence  in  his  five  feet  one  than 
Lincoln  had  in  his  six  feet  four.  At  least  that  was 
my  boyish  impression.  It  is  perhaps  true  that  men 
of  his  kind  are  more  likely  to  have  this  gift  than 
men  of  observation  and  humor  like  Lincoln,  who  are 
made  to  see  rather  than  be  seen;  men  like  Douglas 
have  it,  as  the  unconscious  powers  of  nature  have  it, 
as  strong  animals,  such  as  lions  and  bulls,  have  it. 
He  was  at  that  day  the  most  talked  of  candidate  for 
President,  but  there  were  people  who  said  he  would 
never  be  President  because  his  coat-tails  were  too 
near  the  ground.  His  diminutiveness,  however,  was 
chiefly  in  stature,  due  to  the  shortness  of  his  legs. 
His  shoulders  were  broad  and  his  chest  deep.  Above 
a  short  neck  was  set  a  noble  head  and  powerful 
countenance,  the  strong  features  corrugated  with 
thought  and  force  of  character.  His  whole  bearing 
showed  the  custom  of  command  and  of  a  universally 
conceded  kingship.  He  had  the  negligent  ease  of 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  123 

manner  to  be  observed  in  men  to  whom  such  a  posi 
tion  is  allowed.  "Easy  as  an  old  shoe"  I  have  heard 
a  woman  who  knew  him  describe  him — a  quality, 
by  the  way,  especially  agreeable  to  women,  who  are 
pleased  by  implied,  rather  than  expressed,  strength 
in  men. 

I  say  he  was  a  type  of  that  class  of  men  and  politi 
cians  who  are  the  reverse  of  the  far  rarer  type  to 
which  Lincoln  belonged.  He  was  a  man  of  the  mo 
ment,  of  expedients,  half-truths — lies,  if  you  like 
to  express  it  extremely.  I  have  heard  him  in  the 
Senate  Chamber  fib  by  the  hour  with  vigor  and  elo 
quence.  It  was  when  he  was  spreading  his  sails  to 
win  the  Southern  favor,  which  he  had  lost  by  his 
opposition  to  the  Lecompton  Constitution. 

If  Douglas  was  a  type  of  men  who  speak  with 
reference  to  the  situation  rather  than  with  an  eye 
upon  the  truth,  Lincoln  was  one  of  the  kind  of  men 
who  necessarily  speak  the  truth.  That  he  was  very 
truthful  has  been  widely  remarked  of  him.  For  one 
thing,  he  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  men  of  genius 
are  apt  to  speak  the  truth;  this  because  of  their 
greater  mental  fineness,  and  because  they  see  the 
truth  clearly.  Not  only  are  they  apt  to  speak  the 
truth,  but  they  are  inept  at  telling  lies — that  is,  they 
usually  are.  Then  Lincoln  belonged  to  the  class  of 
humorists,  and  they  are,  I  fancy,  the  least  skilful  of 
all  liars.  The  manner  of  the  humorist  is  to  compare 
the  motions  of  his  own  mind  with  a  standard  of 
truth  and  right;  the  staple  of  his  humor  is  largely  a 
sense  of  the  discrepancy  between  these  detected 
motions  and  truth.  He  is  thus  always  watching 
himself,  and  is  the  last  man  to  be  deceived  as  to  the 
real  nature  of  the  processes  of  his  mind,  and  to  be- 


124  A  Virginian  Village 

come  one  of  the  scarcely  conscious  speakers  of  false 
hood.  Lying  is  a  gift.  The  Pathfinder  says  to  the 
young  man  in  Cooper's  novel,  speaking  upon  the 
subject  of  falsehoods:  "I  know  your  gifts  don't  lie 
that  away."  Lincoln's  gifts  did  not  lie  that  way. 
It  is  told  of  him  in  Nicolay  and  Hay's  "Life"  that 
he  was  engaged  with  a  Judge  Parks  as  counsel  for  a 
man  accused  of  larceny,  whom  he  believed  guilty. 
He  said  to  Judge  Parks:  "If  you  can  say  anything 
for  the  man,  do  it;  if  I  attempt  it,  the  jury  will  see 
that  I  think  he  is  guilty  and  convict  him."  It  was 
Lincoln's  good  fortune  that  the  gift  he  had  suited  his 
time.  It  was  the  day  of  truth.  In  our  ordinary 
work-a-day  world  the  half-truths,  the  evasions,  for 
the  most  part  have  it,  and  it  is  perhaps  right  that  it 
should  be  so.  But  the  period  of  1855-1865  was  an 
exception. 

One  other  relation  Lincoln  had  with  truth.  Any 
one  must  observe  the  good  taste  with  which  he  spoke. 
It  was  because  he  had  such  a  mind  for  truth  that  he 
spoke  so.  An  education  is  spoken  of  as  "liberal,"  I 
suppose,  because  it  affords  its  possessor  a  liberation 
from'Yhe  illusions  and  misconceptions  of  uneducated 
men.  In  Lincoln's  case  it  was  the  truth  that  accom 
plished  what  Greek  and  Latin  do  for  other  men.  It 
was  the  truth  that  made  him  free.  Truth  was  the 
thread  of  Theseus,  by  holding  to  which  he  found  his 
way  with  sureness  and  safety  through  those  laby 
rinths  of  misconception  and  vulgarity  in  which  the 
unlearned  are  so  often  lost.  If  you  would  see  in  what 
bad  taste  and  with  what  misconception  an  unedu 
cated  man  of  genius  can  write,  read  some  of  the  prose 
writing  of  Burns.  Lincoln  having  such  a  mind  as  he 
had,  was  it  necessary  that  he  should  know  Greek 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  125 

and  Latin  before  he  should  be  able  to  express  cor 
rectly  what  he  saw  in  mankind  and  human  life? 
"Come,"  I  have  fancied  such  a  person  saying  to  him 
from  Oxford,  "you  have  three  words  to  one  of  mine. 
Yes,  and  you  have  culture,  which  must  be  a  fine 
thing,  and  I  recognize  that  your  words  have  a  grace 
and  finish,  as  if  breathed  upon  by  influences  from 
an  enchanted  past  that  is  strange  to  me;  but  shall 
you  therefore  see  life  and  man  more  strongly  than 
I,  or  express  the  truth  more  closely  than  I  can  do  in 
that  vernacular  which  I  have  learned  from  a  child?" 

He  is  universally  recognized  as  very  American. 
I  remember  that  Mr.  James  Bryce  in  his  book  on 
this  country  has  picked  out  two  qualities  as  espe 
cially  American.  He  says  that  no  people  abhor  cruelty 
as  the  Americans  do,  and  that  in  no  other  country 
is  the  sense  of  humor  so  widespread.  Both  of  these 
qualities  Lincoln  had  very  strongly.  Everyone 
knows  how  merciful  he  was.  Spies  and  deserters 
were  continually  being  sentenced  to  death.  His 
sense  of  duty  compelled  him  in  some  cases  to  let 
these  sentences  stand,  but  he  was  always  reluctant 
to  do  so.  He  got  out  of  it  where  he  could.  It  is 
probable  that  he  did  not  have  the  mighty  faith  in  the 
efficacy  of  hemp  and  lead  that  a  professional  soldier 
has.  But  of  course  the  real  cause  was  the  merciful 
ness  of  his  heart.  There  are  on  record  innumerable 
illustrations  of  this  quality  of  his.  The  following 
is  an  incident  of  which  I  had  personal  knowledge. 

During  the  Christmas  vacation  of  the  last  winter 
of  the  war  I  had  an  opportunity  to  go  to  the  front 
for  the  Christian  Commission.  I  had  thus  a  chance 
to  visit  City  Point.  While  there,  one  Sunday  even 
ing  in  a  restaurant,  I  heard  a  chaplain  relate  this 


126  A  Virginian  Village 

incident.  He  was  a  red-headed  little  man,  of  a 
sanguine  complexion,  very  vulgar,  but  evidently 
with  a  good  heart  and  a  great  deal  of  vigor  and  full 
of  red  blood.  Two  young  men  in  his  regiment,  who 
were  deserters,  were  to  be  shot.  On  the  day  before 
that  set  for  the  execution,  he  went  to  Washington  to 
try  to  save  the  lives  of  these  men.  Lincoln  was 
standing  in  his  office,  surrounded  by  people,  and  very 
busy.  The  chaplain  got  a  place  in  the  crowd  about 
Lincoln.  An  attendant  presently  came  in  and  said 
to  Lincoln,  "The  mother  of  one  of  those  men  who 
are  to  be  shot  to-morrow  is  outside."  Lincoln  cried 
out  angrily,  "There  is  no  use  of  her  coming  here 
crying  about  me.  I  can't  do  anything  for  her." 
The  chaplain  here  stepped  forward  and  said,  "I 
have  come  here  about  those  men."  He  said  they 
were  very  young  men.  "Well,"  said  Lincoln,  "sup 
pose  they  were  old  men,  with  families  to  support, 
would  that  make  it  any  better?"  But  the  chaplain 
said  that  he  did  not  ask  for  the  men's  lives  on  the 
ground  of  reason  and  justice.  "  I  put  it  on  the  ground 
of  mercy,"  he  said,  and  he  exhorted  the  President 
with  a  fervor  practiced  in  addressing  innumerable 
religious  bodies,  and  which,  because  it  came  right 
from  the  heart,  I  could  see  must  have  been  most 
effective.  Presently  Lincoln,  his  feelings  in  the 
meanwhile,  as  the  man  could  see,  working  strongly 
within  him,  called  out,  "Orderly,  telegraph  General 

to  stop  that  execution  until  he  hears  from 

me."     The  men  were  not  shot. 

Theoretically  I  don't  suppose  such  action  as  this 
can  be  justified.  He  ought  to  have  given  the  man  an 
emphatic  refusal,  and  that  is  what  almost  any  good 
man  of  business  would  have  done.  But  that  he 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  127 

found  it  so  difficult  to  do  this  is  a  characteristic  of 
Lincoln  which  must  always  endear  him  to  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  His  chief  motive,  as  has  been  said, 
was  his  natural  mercifulness.  But  he  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  the  policy  of  severity  in  favor  with  mili 
tary  men.  He  probably  thought  it  another  sort  of 
red  tape.  Once  they  arranged  to  shoot  twenty 
deserters  at  one  time.  Very  red  tape  that  would 
have  been.  A  general  went  to  Washington  to  make 
a  vigorous  protest  to  Lincoln  against  his  expected 
interference.  "It  is  no  use,  general,"  said  Lincoln,  "  I 
won't  do  it."  Lincoln  was  as  wise  as  he  was  humane 
in  refusing  to  consent  to  such  a  proceeding.  The  effect 
on  enlistments  would  surely  have  been  unfavorable. 
It  would  have  helped  resistance  to  the  draft.  The 
President,  of  course,  had  to  see  over  the  whole  field. 
The  general  was  thinking  only  of  the  effect  on  the 
army.  But  even  there  it  is  questionable  whether 
the  effect  would  have  been  good.  It  would  have 
been  of  the  nature  of  an  insult  to  the  honest  private 
soldier,  who  was,  after  all,  doing  the  whole  thing, 
to  intimate  to  him  that  he  was  in  need  of  such  a 
drastic  reminder  of  his  duty.  Lincoln  believed  that 
kindness  and  forbearance  would  be  more  efficacious. 
Humor  is  the  other  American  characteristic  which 
Mr.  Bryce  fixes  upon,  and  it  was  one  of  Lincoln's 
marked  traits.  He  is  the  most  humorous  figure  in 
our  history.  None  of  our  great  political  men  before 
him,  with  the  exception  of  Franklin,  have  been  re 
markable  for  this  quality.  It  is  not  a  quality  you 
expect  to  find  in  a  statesman,  although  some  of  the 
very  great  men,  like  Cromwell  and  Frederick,  have 
had  it.  Humor,  certainly  of  the  kind  his  was,  is  not 
favorable  to  greatness  in  action.  In  many  cases  it 


128  A  Virginian  Village 

affects  the  strength  of  will  of  men.  It  is  very  apt 
to  weaken  ambition  in  men.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
want  of  it  often  seems  to  increase  their  force  and 
efficiency.  It  was  so  in  the  case  of  Sumner,  no  doubt. 
Anyone  must  have  noticed,  for  instance,  that  sen 
timental  people  are  apt  to  have  strong  wills.  The 
fact  that  Lincoln's  possession  of  this  quality  in  no 
way  affected  the  serious  strength  of  his  character  or 
his  vigor  as  a  man  of  action  is  an  indication  of  his 
greatness. 

A  humorist  he  certainly  was.  Upon  the  question 
of  just  how  good  he  was  in  that  way  men  will  differ. 
Our  national  pride  might  lead  us  to  wish  to  put  him 
as  a  great  humorous  hero  by  the  side  of  Swift.  I 
doubt  whether  we  can  do  that  on  the  strength  of 
such  well-authenticated  specimens  of  his  humor  as 
are  recorded.  They  are  good,  no  doubt,  but  scarcely 
so  good  as  those  ancient  favorites  "Dearly  Beloved 
Roger"  or  the  story  of  the  "Meditation  on  a  Broom 
stick."  Regarding  the  most  widely  quoted  of  the 
jokes  attributed  to  him,  that  he  proposed  to  send 
a  barrel  of  the  whiskey  drunk  by  General  Grant  to 
every  general  in  the  army,  which  Mr.  Brooks  claims 
for  him,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  late  Moses  F. 
Odell,  once  asked  Lincoln  if  this  joke  was  his.  "No," 
he  said,  "that  is  too  good  for  me."  It  is  what  I 
should  have  expected.  The  best  things  are  usually 
anonymous.  This  particular  joke  dates  from  much 
before  Lincoln's  day. 

But  there  are  plenty  of  good  things  that  are 
Lincoln's,  of  which  the  following  are  perhaps  as  good 
as  any.  Ben  Wade  was  one  of  Lincoln's  many 
"candid  friends."  The  only  one  of  these,  however, 
whom  Lincoln  really  minded,  was,  I  believe,  Sumner. 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  129 

It  is  natural  for  a  man  of  genius  to  dislike  a  fanatic. 
Men  of  genius  have  a  natural  intuitive  moderation 
and  common  sense  something  like  that  which  women 
have,  and  it  is  a  quality  which  women  have,  the 
wild  behavior  of  certain  English  ladies  to  the  con 
trary  notwithstanding.  Ben  Wade  once  said  to  him: 
"Mr.  President,  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  your 
government  is  going  straight  to  hell;  you're  within 
a  mile  of  it  now!"  "Well,  Senator,"  said  Lincoln, 
"I  believe  that  is  about  the  distance  from  here  to 
the  Capitol."  A  well-known  writer  relates  that  when 
a  boy  he  attended  a  reception  given  to  Lincoln  near 
the  close  of  the  war  at  the  Union  League  Club  in 
Philadelphia.  A  line  of  people  was  passing  Lincoln 
and  shaking  his  hand.  Just  ahead  of  the  youth  was 
a  well-known  local  bore,  who,  of  course,  had  to  take 
advantage  of  the  occasion  to  make  something  like  a 
speech.  He  said:  "I  am  glad  to  take  the  hand  of  the 
man  who,  with  the  help  of  Almighty  God,  put  down 
this  unholy  rebellion."  Lincoln  twigged  his  man  in  a 
minute.  "You're  half  right,  sir,"  said  he;  "you're 
half  right.  Pass  on,  sir;  please  don't  keep  the  line 
waiting." 

The  following  may  not  be  worth  telling  where 
there  are  so  many  better  things  about  him  to  be  had, 
but  it  comes  to  me  at  first  hand  and  it  shows  his  ac 
cessibility  and  friendliness  and  that  humorous  dis 
position  which  was  always  near  at  hand  with  him.  A 
tax  had  been  levied  on  oxen.  An  owner  of  a  pair 
came  to  Lincoln,  who  had  more  on  his  shoulders 
than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  to  see  if  he  would 
not  help  him  to  get  rid  of  the  tax.  Lincoln  knew  the 
man,  and  remembered  the  oxen,  and  said,  "Are 
those  the  oxen  I  see  standing  at  the  corner  when- 


130  A  Virginian  Village 

ever  I  go  to  the  Treasury?  I  never  saw  them  move. 
Maybe  they're  not  movable  property.  Perhaps  we 
may  get  them  put  down  as  real  estate."  In  this 
incident  Lincoln  appears  in  a  patriarchal  character, 
which  was  certainly  his,  reminding  us  of  an  Oriental 
prince  seated  at  the  gate  of  his  palace,  or  rather  of 
the  representation  of  one  in  a  comic  opera. 

If  this  and  many  of  the  things  recorded  of  him  do 
not  seem  remarkable  in  themselves  and  when  looked 
at  separately  from  him,  I  may  say,  that,  like  so 
many  of  the  utterances  and  the  actions  of  the  great, 
they  resemble  sea-water,  which  is  colorless  when  held 
up  in  a  glass,  but  is  blue  when  seen  in  the  vast  ocean. 

We  only  know  of  the  humor  of  Lincoln  as  a  man  of 
mature  years.  I  should  have  liked  to  hear  him  when 
he  was  young,  careless,  and  obscure,  as  Senator 
McDougall  heard  him,  on  the  back  porch  of  a  prairie 
hotel  in  Illinois.  The  incident  is  related  to  me  by  a 
gentleman  who  vouches  for  the  truth  of  it.  I  give 
it  in  his  words.  He  tells  the  story  as  illustrating  the 
union  in  Lincoln  of  a  wild  mirth  with  his  well-known 
constitutional  melancholy. 

"When  Senator  McDougall,  of  California,  was  a 
young  lawyer  in  Troy,  N.  Y.,  he  was  sent  to  attend  to 
a  suit  in  Illinois.  He  arrived  at  the  country  town  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  after  supper  listened  for  an 
hour  to  Western  stories  told  by  a  tall  young  man 
to  a  group  of  idlers  on  the  porch,  which  elicited 
shouts  of  laughter,  in  which  the  narrator  loudly 
joined.  McDougall  went  to  bed  in  a  double-bedded 
room,  and,  when  the  occupant  of  the  other  bed 
appeared,  it  proved  to  be  the  tall  young  man, 
Lincoln,  who  took  a  seat  on  the  side  of  Mc- 
Dougall's  bed  and  asked  questions,  which  were  an- 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  131 

swered  in  a  cheerful  tone.  Lincoln  then  told  his  own 
life  history.  He  had  tried  farming,  log-rolling,  boat 
ing,  and  finally  practicing  law,  but  all  had  been  fail 
ures.  He  thought  that  the  Lord  was  against  him. 
McDougall  said  he  talked  like  one  on  the  verge  of  sui 
cide,  and  it  seemed  hardly  possible  that  it  was  the 
same  man  who  an  hour  before  had  laughed  so  bois 
terously  at  his  own  jokes." 

Another  American  characteristic  that  Lincoln  had 
was  a  keenness  of  direct  perception.  He  was  a  man 
of  intuitions  and  direct  perceptions.  This  is  an 
American  characteristic.  A  keen,  attentive  way  of 
looking  out  is,  I  think,  an  American  quality. 

He  was  an  American  also  in  appearance,  of  the  tall, 
lean  type  which  is  supposed  to  belong  to  this  coun 
try.  It  is  often  said  that  the  American  type  of  face 
and  figure  is  getting  to  resemble  that  of  an  Indian. 
It  is  reasonable  to  expect  that  it  will  be  so  more  and 
more,  the  Indian  being  the  natural  result  of  the 
physical  conditions  of  this  country.  I  for  one  do  not 
regret  this,  for  that  race  is  physically  a  fine  one. 
They  have  not  only  strong  physiques,  but  strong 
countenances  as  well.  Nowhere  do  you  see  more 
powerful  features — features  that  show  more  natural 
strength,  physical,  and  in  a  sense  moral — than  among 
the  best  specimens  of  the  Indian  race.  Lincoln's 
face  and  figure  were  not  unlike  this  type.  He  was 
very  dark  and  he  had  the  high  cheek-bones  of  an 
Indian,  and  in  some  degree  an  Indian  cast  of  features. 

The  man  with  whom  his  name  is  constantly  men 
tioned,  and  with  whom  it  is  natural  to  compare  him, 
is  Washington.  It  is  surely  remarkable  that  we 
should  have  had  in  our  short  history  two  such  char 
acters.  In  a  thousand  years  England  has  had  only 


132  A  Virginian  Village 

one,  Alfred,  and  he  is  almost  legendary.  Washington 
was,  of  course,  a  man  of  much  less  salient  character 
istics  than  Lincoln.  The  young  Chastellux  found 
his  distinction  to  be  in  the  harmonious  blending  of 
his  characteristics,  rather  than  in  the  existence  of 
marked  special  qualities. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  guess  which  of  the  two  men, 
Washington  or  Lincoln,  will  be  the  greater  favorite 
with  women.  How  Mrs.  Abigail  Adams,  with  her 
artless  eighteenth-century  vivacity,  expresses  the 
admiration  with  which  she  saw  Washington  review 
the  troops  at  Cambridge!  At  a  dinner  which  Wash 
ington  gave  shortly  before  retiring  from  the  pres 
idency,  when  he  arose  and  spoke  of  his  approaching 
retirement,  the  British  minister's  wife,  who  was  pres 
ent,  burst  into  tears.  Another  lady,  a  very  attractive 
young  woman,  a  Miss  Greene,  who  has  left  an  ac 
count  of  her  first  meeting  with  Washington,  has  told 
us  that  she  wept  upon  this  occasion.  One  wonders  just 
how  agreeable  this  could  have  been  to  Mrs.  Wash 
ington,  who  was  present.  Washington  had  beauty, 
and  had  besides  the  gift  of  looking  great.  Of  this 
gift  of  making  a  fine  public  appearance  Lincoln  had 
none.  I  was  jammed  in  the  crowd  in  front  of  the 
Astor  House,  when  Lincoln,  standing  up  in  a  ba 
rouche  and  bowing  to  the  crowd,  was  driven  down 
Broadway.  This  was  when  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Washington  to  be  inaugurated.  He  looked  very 
good-natured  and  anxious  to  please,  but  the  figure 
he  presented  was  ungainly,  certainly  not  imposing. 
His  beard,  which  about  the  time  of  his  election  he  had 
allowed  to  grow,  disguised  the  lower  part  of  his  face, 
the  carving  of  which  was  singularly  fine,  the  line  of 
the  chin  having  a  fine  sweep  and  the  fall  of  the  cheek 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  133 

nervously  and  strongly  chiselled.  He  had  not  the 
kind  of  looks  to  impress  a  crowd,  although  I  am  sure 
he  must  have  looked  great  to  those  who  saw  him 
intimately  and  who  had  eyes  to  see. 

Ladies  did  not  weep  when  they  met  Lincoln.  One 
might  guess  that  he  was  not  especially  endowed  with 
the  power  of  pleasing  them.  I  have  received  from  a 
lady,  and  give  below,  an  account  of  an  interview 
which  she  had  with  Lincoln,  which  will  give  an  idea  of 
the  way  in  which  women  regarded  him  during  his 
lifetime.  Of  course,  they  would  think  differently  of 
him  now  in  the  vast  fame  into  which  he  has  come, 
for  they  love  fame.  Perhaps  I  should  say  something 
about  the  writer.  She  was  at  that  time  a  brilliant 
and  handsome  girl.  She  was  such  a  character  as 
only  appears  in  times  of  great  public  agitation,  when 
people's  minds  are  full  of  exciting  ideas.  Her  char 
acteristics  were  an  intense  sympathy  with  any  kind 
of  suffering,  whether  of  human  beings  or  of  animals 
(at  that  time,  of  course,  her  whole  heart  was  with  the 
slaves),  transparent,  impulsive  honesty,  great  ardor 
of  feeling,  and  a  very  high,  courageous  tone. 

"We  made  our  call,  which  was  by  prearrangement, 
on  the  President.  I  think  it  was  the  autumn  of  '64. 
There  were  three  or  four  of  us.  The  call  was  made 
about  twelve  o'clock,  noon.  At  the  door  we  had  a 
slight  altercation  with  the  servant,  who  said  the 
President  would  not  or  could  not  see  anyone  that 
day.  One  of  our  number,  the  Hon.  Robert  Dale 
Owen,  once  our  minister  to  Naples,  and  a  former 
congressman,  was  a  personal  friend  of  Mr.  Lincoln. 
The  President  gave  us  a  cordial  welcome,  and  seemed 
annoyed  when  we  told  him  that  the  servant  had  re 
fused  to  admit  us.  He  was  cordial  to  us,  extremely 


134  A  Virginian  Village 

so,  and,  on  hearing  that  I  was  an  abolitionist  and  had 
once  manumitted  a  few  slaves,  he  addressed  the  most 
of  his  conversation  to  me  and,  as  I  was  young,  wild, 
and  chatty,  he  seemed  amused  and  perhaps  pleased 
at  my  audacity.  He  asked  me  what  I  thought  the 
best  way  to  destroy  slavery.  I  quickly  replied,  'It 
is  always  well  to  do  right,  without  delay  and  on  the 
instant.'  He  smiled  ironically,  saying  that  that 
could  not  be  right,  to  do  things  without  reason  or 
order,  to  which  I  replied:  'Mr.  William  Lloyd  Gar 
rison,  the  greatest  man  that  had  ever  lived  [again  he 
smiled]  has  informed  me  that  there  could  be  no  delay 
or  tarrying  in  doing  right  or  in  rendering  justice.' 
The  President  said,  as  he  patted  me  on  the  shoulder, 
'What  a  little  enthusiast  you  are!  I  am  neither  a  red 
nor  a  black  Republican.'  'I  am  both,'  was  my  reply. 
'So  I  perceive,'  was  his  rejoinder.  He  seemed  both 
amused  and  startled  at  my  intensity,  and  when  taking 
leave  of  us,  he  again  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and 
said:  'I  like  your  enthusiasm  and  earnestness.  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  again.'  Alas,  I  never  saw  him 
again.  I  might  have  told  you  in  confidence  that 
during  the  interview  Mr.  Lincoln  sat  with  his  foot 
and  leg  lifted  on  a  rather  high  table." 

The  charitable  reader  will  attribute  the  peculiarity 
of  manners  mentioned  in  the  last  sentence  of  the 
above  quoted  remarks  to  his  origin  and  bringing  up. 
I  don't  believe  that.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  was  a 
personal  deficiency  of  his  own. 

One  hears  now  and  then  objections  to  the  position 
which  people  of  this  country  have  given  Lincoln. 
An  eminent  English  critic  has  ventured  the  remark 
that  he  had  no  distinction.  If  he  means  class  dis 
tinction — and  I  think  an  idea  something  like  this  is  in 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  135 

his  mind — of  course  not.  That  he  was  a  gentleman, 
however,  I  am  sure.  Genius  tends  to  make  gentle 
men  of  plain  men,  just  as  it  tends  to  make  men  who 
belong  by  birth  to  the  other  end  of  society  plainer 
and  more  human,  by  freeing  them  from  that  narrow 
ness  and  rash  superficiality  which  is  their  besetting 
fault.  His  goodness,  his  sincerity,  his  clear  percep 
tions  (all  gentleman-like  qualities)  made  impossible 
for  him  those  pretenses  which  are  such  a  fruitful 
source  of  vulgarity.  Class  distinction,  of  course,  he 
had  not.  But  if  by  distinction  is  meant  individuality, 
an  unmistakable  peculiarity  and  identity,  what  great 
man  of  history  had  more  of  it?  What  a  contrast  he 
presents  in  this  respect  to  the  great  contemporary 
English  statesman,  Gladstone.  The  Englishman  re 
minds  one  of  those  California  peaches  that  are  so 
large  and  handsome  but  have  little  flavor.  There 
was  little  in  his  mind  that  was  peculiar.  Gladstone 
seems  to  have  been  anybody  else  raised  to  the  nth 
power.  Lincoln,  on  the  other  hand,  both  in  his  ut 
terances  and  his  nature,  possessed  a  marked  peculiar 
ity.  The  quality  which  I  have  mentioned  above  as 
Lincoln's  might  be  called  by  any  one  of  half  a  dozen 
names;  "distinction"  or  "peculiarity"  would  an 
swer.  Anyone  will  know  what  I  mean.  A  great 
statesman  almost  always  has  this  quality.  Napoleon 
had  it;  Cromwell  had  it.  But  I  don't  see  that  the 
quality  is  necessary  to  make  a  great  statesman.  It  is 
not  at  all  the  same  thing  as  a  power  to  acquire  knowl 
edge  or  even  as  intellectual  power.  If  a  statesman 
has  the  power  to  know  what  should  be  known  and 
to  judge  this  knowledge  and  to  act  upon  this  judg 
ment,  why  is  that  not  enough?  It  was  enough  in 
Gladstone's  case.  It  is  not  difficult  to  think  of  great 


136  A  Virginian  Village 

statesmen  besides  Gladstone  who  did  not  have  this 
quality.  In  our  history  I  think  that  Hamilton  was 
such  a  man.  He  is  admittedly  one  of  the  greatest 
American  statesmen.  Yet  I  should  doubt  if  he  had 
this  peculiarity  of  mind  of  which  I  speak.  He  cer 
tainly  did  not  have  another  quality  that  always  goes 
with  this  peculiarity,  which  I  might  call  visibility  or 
familiarity.  Where  a  man  has  a  peculiar  mind,  the 
world  can  see  him  very  clearly.  I  think  the  country 
does  not  have  a  clear  sense  of  the  personality  of 
Hamilton.  The  people  believe  him  to  be  great,  be 
cause  of  what  he  achieved  in  connection  with  the 
early  history  of  the  nation.  But  they  do  not  see  him. 
Nor  did  he  have  another  quality,  which  almost  al 
ways  goes  with  the  peculiar  mind,  literary  power,  the 
power  of  interesting  speech  that  reaches  the  minds  of 
men,  such  as  Napoleon  or  Lincoln  or  Bismarck  had. 
Hamilton  has  left  eleven  big  volumes,  but  not  a  sen 
tence  or  a  phrase  of  it  all,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  got 
into  popular  mind.  If  you  look  in  Bartlett's  "Fa 
miliar  Quotations,"  under  "Hamilton"  you  will 
find  what  Webster,  a  literary  man,  said  about  Ham 
ilton  ("He  struck  the  dry  rock  of  public  credit," 
etc.),  but  not  a  word  of  Hamilton's. 

Unlike  certain  great  men,  you  understand  Lin 
coln.  It  by  no  means  follows  that,  because  a  man 
has  great  peculiarity  and  visibility,  that  we  see  him 
in  the  sense  of  understanding  him.  Napoleon  is 
externally  the  most  visible  of  men,  but  you  do  not 
understand  him.  That  is  perhaps  the  great  fascina 
tion  of  him.  He  is  such  a  conundrum.  The  con 
stant  additions  that  are  being  made  to  our  knowledge 
of  what  he  did  and  said  do  not  seem  to  have  made 
his  mind  any  clearer  to  us. 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  137 

But  we  feel  that  we  comprehend  Lincoln.  I  think 
one  reason  of  that  is  that  he  was  an  honest  man  and 
a  good  man.  As  you  take  him  by  the  hand  and  look 
into  his  eyes,  you  feel  that  you  know  him.  If  you 
were  having  any  kind  of  a  business  transaction  with 
him,  you  would  feel  that  you  knew  where  you  were. 
With  Napoleon,  of  course,  you  would  not  know  that 
at  all.  Perhaps  the  difference  between  the  good 
great  men  and  the  bad  great  men  is  that  you  under 
stand  the  former  and  do  not  understand  the  latter. 
It  is  hard  to  understand  the  bad  men,  because  they 
are  so  much  less  simple  than  the  good.  No  man 
being  wholly  bad,  the  bad  men  are  such  a  mixture 
and  so  hard  to  unravel. 

And  yet  the  mind  of  Lincoln  has  its  mysteries. 
How  difficult  it  would  be  to  understand  by  what 
power  it  is  that  he  is  able  to  know  when  to  act  and 
when  to  wait!  That  power  of  choosing  the  moment 
for  action,  which  the  world  agrees  was  his,  how  can 
you  explain  that?  Of  course,  you  may  say  that 
this  knowledge  is  the  result  of  an  intense  study  of 
the  situation  by  a  powerful  mind.  Or  you  may  say 
that  it  is  a  genius.  Can  you  get  any  nearer  to  it 
than  that?  Lincoln  seems  to  have  had  something 
like  the  "demon,"  of  Socrates,  an  inner  light  to 
which  he  looked  for  instruction. 

One  gets  a  little  tired  of  the  uniformity  of  lauda 
tion  with  which  Lincoln  is  so  often  spoken  of.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  gush,  and  now  and  then  something 
like  cant  in  what  one  hears.  In  particular  there  can 
be  no  merit  in  the  doctoring  of  contemporaneous 
impressions  to  suit  the  taste  of  later  times.  If  men 
are  telling  us  of  their  relations  with  Lincoln  during 
his  lifetime,  they  should  tell  us  what  they  thought 


138  A  Virginian  Village 

then.  Mr.  C.  F.  Adams,  in  his  life  of  his  father,  has 
given  us  his  father's  contemporaneous  impressions, 
and  he  is  to  be  thanked  for  doing  so.  They  are  very 
interesting.  He  describes  an  interview  which  his 
father  had  with  Lincoln  early  in  1861. 

Mr.  Seward  took  Mr.  Adams,  who  had  just  been 
appointed  minister  to  England,  to  call  upon  the 
President.  In  the  writer's  words:  "Presently  a  door 
opened,  and  a  tall,  large-featured,  shabbily-dressed 
man,  of  uncouth  appearance,  slouched  into  the 
room."  Mr.  Adams,  having  been  introduced  by  the 
Secretary,  expressed  his  thanks  for  the  appointment 
in  the  usual  manner.  Lincoln  said  that  the  thanks 
were  not  due  to  him,  but  to  Mr.  Seward,  upon  whose 
recommendation  the  appointment  was  made.  Then, 
we  were  informed,  he  swung  his  long  arms  to  his 
head  with  an  air  of  great  relief,  and  said:  "Well, 
Governor,  I  have  this  morning  decided  the  Chicago 
post-office  appointment."  That  was  all  he  had  to 
say.  Mr.  Adams  was  very  much  shocked  and  never 
got  over  the  impression  this  first  interview  made 
upon  him.  To  the  admirer  of  Lincoln,  however, 
Lincoln's  behavior  upon  this  occasion  will  seem  to 
have  been  very  much  in  character,  and  he  will  con 
tinue  to  be  as  fond  and  proud  of  him  as  before. 

What  was  there  that  was  necessary  to  say — that 
Mr.  Adams's  task  would  be  one  of  great  delicacy 
and  difficulty,  that  the  course  he  would  pursue 
would  depend  upon  the  way  in  which  events  should 
shape  themselves — or  some  such  remark?  Didn't 
Mr.  Adams  know  all  this?  The  spring  of  1861  in 
Washington  was  no  time  for  making  conversation, 
and  I  doubt  whether  Lincoln  could  ever  have  been 
very  good  at  that.  Why  not  speak  of  the  Chicago 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  139 

post-office?  It  was  business  that  had  to  be  done. 
Didn't  he  say  himself  that  he  was  like  a  man  who 
was  too  busy  letting  out  rooms  at  one  end  of  the 
house  to  extinguish  the  fire  that  was  raging  at  the 
other? 

The  facts  are  as  given  above,  but  it  is  seldom  that 
one  meets  with  an  interview  between  two  distin 
guished  characters  that  is  so  interesting,  and  I  may 
be  permitted  a  little  guess  work  of  my  own  upon  it. 
Lincoln's  manner,  we  are  told,  was  "shy  and  con 
strained."  With  his  eyes,  we  may  be  sure  that  he 
knew  at  a  glance  that  his  visitor  was  a  considerable 
person.  He  was  probably  not  blind  to  the  dignified 
bearing  and  quiet,  simple  distinction  of  Mr.  Adams, 
and  he  was  very  likely  not  insensible  to  his  name  and 
connections.  In  those  days  to  people  on  the  prairies 
Boston  and  things  Bostonian  looked  very  polite  and 
superior.  We  may  be  sure  also  that  Lincoln,  with 
his  keen  susceptibilities,  was  aware  that  he  was  him 
self  misjudged,  and  this  did  not  tend  to  make  him 
less  "shy  and  constrained."  Of  course,  a  practiced 
man  of  the  world — no,  I  won't  say  that,  for,  in  the 
truest  and  deepest  sense  of  the  term,  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  a  better  man  of  the  world  than  Lincoln  was — 
but  a  man  accustomed  to  the  usages  of  good  society 
would  have  concealed  this,  and  such  Lincoln  was  not. 

The  writer  of  this  biography  has  no  doubt  that 
Lincoln  was  a  great  man,  but  reconciles  the  fact  of 
his  greatness  with  the  unfavorable  impression  re 
ceived  by  Mr.  Adams  by  the  consideration  that  the 
Lincoln  who  had  received  the  education  of  four  years 
of  office  was  a  different  man  from  the  Lincoln  Mr. 
Adams  met  in  the  spring  of  1861.  A  simpler  ex 
planation,  and  that  which  will  commend  itself  to 


140  A  Virginian  Village 

most  readers,  is  that  Mr.  Adams  was  mistaken.  He 
was  neither  by  nature  nor  training  the  kind  of  man 
to  understand  Lincoln. 

It  is  interesting  to  inquire  what  would  have  been 
the  effect  upon  the  fame  and  position  of  Lincoln  if 
things  had  happened  differently  from  the  way  they 
did  happen.  Suppose  he  had  not  been  nominated, 
and  someone  else  had  been  nominated  and  elected. 
I  believe  he  would  have  remained  the  most  interest 
ing  personality  of  the  time,  owing  to  his  literary 
gifts  and  his  gifts  of  leadership.  There  was  no  man 
who  spoke  with  such  genius.  There  were  eloquent 
writers  and  speakers,  but  none  had  his  insight  and 
power  of  consummate  expression.  If  he  had  gone 
into  the  Senate,  which  he  preferred  to  the  presidency 
(and  that  is  no  doubt  what  he  would  have  done),  he 
would  probably  have  been  the  wisest  and  most  un 
selfish  counsellor  and  supporter  of  the  Government, 
and  the  most  trusted  leader  and  adviser  of  the  people, 
and,  when  the  day  of  restoration  came,  the  chief 
restorer.  We  should  have  had  the  leader  and  the 
seer  and  the  consummate  speaker.  But  we  should 
not  have  had,  what  is  perhaps  the  greatest  Lincoln, 
the  enduring,  silent  man  of  action  and  responsibility. 

But  suppose  him  President  and  that  the  South  had 
won.  What  effect  would  the  victory  of  the  South 
have  had  upon  his  fame?  I  remember  well  during 
the  war  there  was  a  close  connection  between  the 
military  success  of  the  North  and  the  apparent 
greatness  of  Lincoln.  When  the  Union  arms  were 
successful,  the  figure  of  the  President,  with  that  visi 
bility  in  which  he  was  so  gifted,  would  loom  up  very 
large;  on  the  other  hand,  when  defeat  came,  the 
figure  would  dwindle  and  fall  into  a  kind  of  dilapida- 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  141 

tion.  But  that  was  because,  although  he  was  so 
familiar  to  us,  we  did  not  really  know  him.  But 
now  that  we  know  him  so  well,  probably  better 
than  any  man  was  ever  known  before  in  the  world's 
history,  what  bearing  has  success  had  upon  his  fame? 
Or  rather,  what  would  have  been  the  effect  upon  the 
fame  of  the  victory  of  the  South  ?  There  is  no  doubt 
that  victory  is  very  becoming  to  a  great  man,  and 
we  are  glad  that  the  fame  of  our  hero  has  received 
this  final  ornament.  But  if  after  1864  the  North 
had  failed,  Lincoln  would  have  still  been  the  same 
man  we  know  now,  the  seer,  the  genius,  and  the  mas 
ter  of  consummate  speech,  and  the  silent  man  of 
business  and  action.  His  qualities,  it  may  be  said, 
are  of  a  kind  that  would  still  be  interesting  in  ad 
versity.  That  is  by  no  means  true  of  all  great  men. 
Napoleon,  for  instance,  is  chiefly  interesting  in  a 
palace  or  at  the  head  of  his  victorious  armies.  Not 
withstanding  the  fact,  which  I  presume  to  be  a  fact, 
that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  get  too  much  of  a  great 
man,  that  one  almost  always  wants  more,  I  fancy  it 
is  easy  to  get  too  much  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena. 
The  fact,  of  the  truth  of  which  I  am  assured,  that 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  perfectly  authentic  informa 
tion  about  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  existing  in  manu 
script  which  is  not  published  because  it  is  not  thought 
that  the  world  would  be  interested  in  reading  it, 
would  seem  to  be  proof  of  this.  But  we  are  sure 
that  the  interest  and  affections  of  men  would  have 
followed  Lincoln  into  retirement  after  defeat.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  to  the  same  extent  as 
now;  constituted  as  men  are,  it  is  not  possible  to 
suppose  that. 

I  saw  him  several  times,  but  I  met  him  only  once 


142  A  Virginian  Village 

face  to  face.  It  was  during  the  Christmas  holidays 
of  the  winter  of  1864-65.  I  was  in  Washington  for  a 
vacation,  and  went  to  the  White  House  one  evening 
at  the  usual  weekly  public  reception.  I  followed  the 
crowd  and  the  President  gave  me,  as  I  passed  him, 
a  limp  shake  of  the  hand.  Later  in  the  evening, 
after  the  greater  part  of  the  people  had  gone,  I  was 
walking  through  the  rooms,  and  I  entered  one  in 
which  I  came  upon  Lincoln  sitting  in  a  chair.  I 
think  there  was  only  one  other  person  in  the  room 
sitting  with  him.  Lincoln  was  evidently  resting  and 
was  sitting  in  a  posture  which,  though  easy  and  com 
fortable,  was  dignified  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  refined. 
The  expression  of  his  countenance  was  pleasant,  not 
tired  and  sad,  as  one  often  hears,  cheerful  rather. 
It  was  after  his  second  election.  Sheridan  had  been 
victorious  in  the  Valley  and  Savannah  had  fallen, 
and  the  end  was  in  sight.  The  plot  was  working 
toward  the  final  chapter,  when  the  good  characters, 
great  and  small,  should  be  made  happy  forever, 
and  even  the  naughty  and  defeated  were  to  be  dis 
missed  with  that  magnanimity  usual  in  last  chapters. 
In  particular,  what  a  pleasing  future  is  to  be  assigned 
the  chief  hero.  With  the  perfect  confidence  of  his 
countrymen,  and  with  vast  personal  authority,  he 
is  about  to  enter  upon  that  work  of  pacification  and 
restoration  for  which  his  qualities  are  so  eminently 
fitted.  All  this  seemed  to  be  expressed  in  his  face  and 
figure.  His  eyes  met  mine  for  a  moment,  and  his 
countenance  wore  a  slightly  quizzical  expression,  as 
if  somewhat  amused  at  the  eagerness  with  which  I  no 
doubt  regarded  him.  I  had  not  come  into  the  room 
meaning  to  look  at  him,  or  knowing  that  he  was  there; 
but  coming  upon  him  suddenly,  I  dare  say  I  took  a 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  143 

good  look  at  him.  But  his  expression  was  very 
friendly,  and  I  thought  he  looked  out  of  his  eyes, 
not  as  a  statesman  or  a  man  of  business  does,  but 
rather  like  an  artist  or  humorist.  I  might  perfectly 
well  have  known  him,  if  I  had  taken  the  trouble. 
I  have  always  heard  he  liked  young  people.  There 
was  an  honest  youth,  at  that  time  connected  with 
the  Christian  Commission  in  Washington,  who  made 
his  acquaintance  in  this  manner.  He  was  anxious 
to  get  the  use  of  transports  to  take  some  things  to 
the  front.  He  tried  to  get  them  at  the  War  Depart 
ment,  but  was  denied.  An  officer  who  had  heard 
him  make  the  application  followed  him  out  and  said : 
"I  am  a  soldier,  and  cannot  say  anything  to  con 
travene  the  views  of  my  superiors,  but  there  is  noth 
ing  to  prevent  my  pointing,"  and  he  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  the  White  House.  The  young  man  ac 
cordingly  went  there,  and  got  admission  to  Lincoln, 
who  said,  "Well,  young  fellow,  what  do  you  want?" 
He  told  him,  and  Lincoln  said:  "You  had  better 
leave  that  to  me.  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do."  Lincoln, 
I  dare  say,  in  an  instant  "twigged"  the  situation, 
recognizing  with  a  humorous  side-glance  the  natural 
feeling  of  the  officials  of  the  War  Department  that 
the  work  of  these  outside  commissions  was  a  reflection 
upon  themselves.  He  was  great  upon  the  things  to 
make  note  of  without  comment,  and  loved  the  mix-up 
of  motives  in  people's  minds.  The  young  man  told 
me  the  story  thus:  "I  said,  'There  is  nothing  I  should 
like  better  than  to  have  you  tell  me,  Mr.  President!' 
He  saw  I  was  not  a  bit  stuck  on  myself,  and  seemed 
pleased.  He  said,  'You  go  to  Secretary  Welles,' 
(giving  him  some  details  as  to  how  to  proceed), 
'but  be  sure  not  to  tell  him  I  sent  you.' "  The  young 


144  A  Virginian  Village 

man  went  to  the  Secretary  and  got  what  he  wanted. 
He  went  afterward  to  Lincoln,  and  reported  the 
successful  issue  of  the  matter,  and  Lincoln  said: 
"Mind,  when  you  get  into  such  a  scrape  again,  you 
come  to  me." 

Lincoln  was  fond  of  doing  things  of  this  sort. 
One  would  think  that  he  would  have  wished  to  avoid 
the  bother  of  such  small  matters.  But  it  is  likely 
that  he  found  a  relief  in  them  from  more  trying  busi 
ness.  He  was  always  looking  for  such  distractions. 
One  of  the  greatest  bores  I  ever  knew  once  told  me 
that  Lincoln  said  to  him  that  he  might  come  to  see 
him  when  he  liked,  and  told  of  a  certain  knock  which 
he  (Lincoln)  would  recognize.  Besides  being  a  great 
bore,  this  individual  was  a  very  foolish  man.  I 
have  scarcely  ever  known  in  my  life  a  man  I  could 
without  hesitation  call  a  fool — that  is,  a  man  with 
such  an  excess  of  folly  as  to  separate  him  sharply 
from  the  mass  of  his  fellow-creatures.  I  don't  know 
that  he  was  such  a  man,  but  he  was  certainly  very 
foolish.  He  told  me  sadly  that  there  was  a  frivolity 
about  Lincoln  that  depressed  him.  He  said  that 
when  he  wished  to  speak  to  Lincoln  seriously  upon 
the  state  of  public  affairs,  Lincoln  would  always  have 
some  absurd  story  to  tell  him.  I  can  quite  under 
stand  that  Lincoln  found  a  relief  in  the  sociable 
fatuity  of  this  gentleman. 

I  went  to  the  Tenth  Street  Museum  when  in  Wash 
ington,  and  saw  many  photographs  of  Lincoln.  They 
are  all  interesting,  but  two  especially  so.  One  is 
by  Hessler,  taken  in  Chicago  in  1859.  There  is  no 
beard,  and  you  see  the  fine  sweep  of  the  lower  part  of 
his  face.  A  young  lady  who  writes  novels  has  lately 
said  that  her  hero  had  a  jaw  and  a  chin  like  the  prow 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  145 

of  a  ship.  The  outline  of  the  lower  part  of  Lin 
coln's  face  is  like  that.  But  it  is  the  expression  in 
the  photograph  of  the  countenance  and  the  look  out 
of  the  eyes  that  is  most  interesting.  Up  to  that  time 
he  had  been  doing  little  but  think  and  speak,  and  the 
eyes  are  full  of  meditation  and  contemplation.  They 
have  a  sweet  and  steady  and  indolent  power,  a  power 
latent  and  asleep  rather  than  in  action — the  musing, 
dreaming  look  of  the  poet  and  thinker.  The  ex 
pression  of  the  countenance  is  singularly  lovely  and 
winsome,  has  a  wonderful  niceness.  I  have  tried 
hard  to  define  the  charm  of  that  expression.  It  must 
have  been  there.  Lincoln's  face  must  have  worn  at 
that  moment  just  that  look.  It  is  not  the  individual 
fancy  of  some  clever  portrait  painter  that  you  see. 
There  is  nothing  but  the  sun  between  us  and  him. 
There  it  is,  and  there  it  will  remain  to  tantalize  with 
its  elusive  beauty  the  poets  of  distant  ages  in  search 
of  a  verbal  equivalent. 

The  other  was  taken  at  City  Point  the  Sunday 
before  his  death.  He  is  sharpening  a  pencil  for  Tad 
and  laughing.  He  looks  tired  and  pale,  but  his  face 
is  beaming  with  happiness  and  relief — infinite  re 
lief, — reminding  one  of  Bishop  Butler's  remark  that 
the  greatest  happiness  is  the  cessation  of  pain. 

The  relation  of  Lincoln  to  the  boy  Tad  will  always 
be  a  subject  of  popular  interest.  I  once  spent  an 
hour  in  the  company  of  Tad.  He  was  then  a  young 
fellow  of  eighteen  or  nineteen.  He  had  a  slight  im 
pediment  in  his  speech,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  have 
a  kind  of  slowness  and  heaviness.  But  he  was  a 
sensible  fellow,  and  had  a  look  of  great  honesty  and 
simple  friendliness.  I  had  a  feeling  that  his  nature 
still  felt  the  influence  and  reflected  image  of  that 


146  A  Virginian  Village 

great  kindness  which  had  shone  upon  his  childhood. 
A  lady,  who  is  Lincoln's  descendant  and  in  whose 
countenance  it  was  easy  to  trace  the  outlines  of  Lin 
coln's  features,  told  me,  in  speaking  of  Tad:  "He  was 
a  very  nice  boy,  and  his  death  was  more  than  his 
mother  could  stand.  It  was  the  last  straw,  and  she 
died." 

I  went  over  the  house  in  Springfield  in  which  he 
lived,  which  is  now  public  property,  and  which  dur 
ing  certain  hours  is  shown  to  visitors.  Two  iron 
cannon  stand  in  the  yard  behind  the  house.  The 
lady  who  showed  me  over  the  house  was  a  relative  of 
Lincoln's  family.  She  showed  me  a  sofa  where, 
she  said,  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lincoln  did  their  courting." 
If  the  homely  phrase  should  offend  you,  I  am  not  of 
your  way  of  thinking.  The  influences  which  moulded 
Lincoln's  character,  the  family  ties,  the  relations  of 
"father,  son,  and  brother,"  those  "chanties"  (Mil 
ton's  exquisite  word)  of  the  family  life  which,  anyone 
must  have  observed,  impart  to  the  eyes  and  voices 
of  men  a  peculiar  seriousness  and  sincerity,  are  they 
not  matters  of  interest  to  all  of  us  who  would  under 
stand  him?  That  kindness,  too,  which  would  face 
the  probability  of  an  unhappy  life  rather  than  that 
a  woman  should  suffer  was  a  part  of  his  character, 
and  should  not  be  overlooked. 

I  went  to  the  grave,  which  is  on  the  top  of  what 
is  a  considerable  rise  of  ground  for  that  country. 
It  is  somewhat  apart  from  the  town.  A  walk  through 
one  of  those  sparse  groves,  bare  of  underbrush,  which 
belong  to  the  Mississippi  Valley,  leads  to  it,  and 
numbers  of  the  visitors  to  the  fair  were  making  the 
pilgrimage.  The  monument  over  the  tomb  contains 
a  kind  of  museum,  in  which  are  shown  relics  relating 


Impressions  of  Lincoln  147 

to  Lincoln.  I  found  something  appropriate  in  the 
casual  and  perhaps  inadequate  character  of  the  struc 
ture.  It  seemed  to  me  to  signify  the  silence  and  the 
patience  of  death  and  to  be  a  suggestion  that  the 
task  of  raising  a  fitting  memorial  might  be  left  to 
the  fulness  of  time  and  to  some  more  ideal  and  per 
fect  future  age,  if  such  there  is  to  be. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  LOWELL 

THE  writer  of  this  paper  had  for  some  four 
years  an  official  connection  with  Mr.  Lowell 
and,  as  would  of  course  happen  in  seeing  daily  a  man 
of  such  marked  qualities,  formed  a  lively  impression 
of  his  character  and  genius.  This  he  has  sketched 
here: — 

Perhaps  the  first  quality  which  would  have  im 
pressed  anyone  in  Mr.  Lowell  was  his  youthfulness. 
I  have  heard  this  trait  remarked  upon  by  numbers  of 
persons.  There  were  several  elements  to  be  dis 
tinguished  in  this  quality.  Lowell  was  a  poet,  and 
poets  are  apt  to  keep  their  youth  beyond  other  men. 
It  is  also  a  common  observation  that  men  of  superior 
character — of  whom  he  was  undoubtedly  one — 
often  retain  their  youthfulness  in  advanced  years. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  mention  persons  in  whom  this 
combination  of  elements  exists,  resulting  in  a  youth 
ful  character  of  mind.  Such  a  man  as  Matthew 
Arnold  had  it  to  a  marked  degree,  although  in  him 
it  was  associated  with  an  extraordinary  personal 
attractiveness.  We  see  it  also  in  the  simplicity  and 
the  brave  eccentricity  of  Lord  Tennyson's  character, 
as  expressed  in  his  later  poems.  Such  persons,  in 
deed,  seem  to  preserve  a  physical  youth  beyond 
other  people.  An  old  lady,  who  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  Carlyle's,  has  told  me  that  Carlyle  had  an 
eye  of  a  peculiar  color,  a  light  blue,  and  that  an  eye 
of  this  color  almost  always  fades  in  old  age,  but  that 
Carlyle's  eye  retained  in  extreme  age  the  bright 


Impressions  of  Lowell  149 

color  of  youth.  Mr.  Lowell  had  the  same  combina 
tion  of  youthful  qualities  which  belonged  to  these 
men,  but  I  think  that  he  had,  over  and  beyond  these, 
a  quality  of  youth  which  was  his  own.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  many  of  his  traits  might  be  referred  to 
this  youthfulness,  even  those  which  were  remarked 
upon  by  people  as  foibles.  He  was,  for  instance, 
fond  of  a  style  of  paradoxical  conversation.  We 
had  been,  I  remember,  to  see  a  burlesque,  in  which 
a  policeman  was  made  to  act  on  the  stage  in  a  ridic 
ulous  manner.  Mr.  Lowell  gravely  maintained  that 
such  an  exhibition  had  a  tendency  to  lower  the  pub 
lic  respect  for  authority,  was  contra  bonos  mores, 
and  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  should  have  pro 
hibited  it.  In  this  he  was  perfectly  serious.  He 
was  never  better  company  than  when  in  this  vein, 
and  the  habit  of  mind  was  to  a  great  degree  the  re 
sult  of  his  elastic  youthfulness.  I  have  seen  him 
described  in  some  of  the  English  papers  as  having 
a  self-conscious  manner.  He  had  at  times  a  some 
what  professorial  air,  but  the  boy  was  too  strong  in 
him  to  leave  much  room  for  the  professor. 

It  is  odd  that  Mr.  Lowell  should  have  been  dis 
tinctively  the  Yankee  poet;  for  I  should  not  have 
said  that  he  had  the  Yankee  characteristics.  He 
had  a  power  of  enjoyment  which  was  not  Yankee,  a 
power  of  enjoyment  both  mental  and  physical.  He 
liked  good  food,  drink  and  tobacco,  and  was  alto 
gether  very  fond  of  the  earth.  He  sometimes  spoke 
of  this  quality  and  said  that  he  had  upon  his  ear  a 
mark  which  is  peculiar  to  the  ear  of  the  faun.  One 
might  say  also  that  he  was  without  the  proverbial 
keen-sightedness  of  the  Yankee.  He  did  not  im 
press  me  as  having  this  quality  as  an  individual,  nor 


150  A  Virginian  Village 

do  I  find  it  in  his  writings,  certainly  not  in  his  critical 
writings.  He  had  great  qualities  for  the  critic's 
task.  He  had  very  wide  reading.  He  said,  for 
instance,  that  for  ten  years  he  lay  on  his  back  and 
did  nothing  but  read.  He  had  also  a  great  feeling 
for  the  romance  of  literature  and  learning,  and  he 
had  the  same  power  of  enjoyment  in  literature  which 
he  had  in  life  in  general.  But  does  he  not  appear  in 
his  literary  essays  as  an  enjoying  rather  than  a  critical 
reader?  If,  however,  he  had  not  what  would  be 
called  keen  perceptions,  he  was  also  without  that 
acerbity  which  is  apt  to  accompany  such  percep 
tions.  As  became  so  prosperous  and  successful  a 
man,  his  judgments  of  men  and  things  were  very 
gentle. 

But  if  Mr.  Lowell  had  not  himself  to  any  marked 
degree  the  Yankee  qualities,  the  world  knows  what 
delight  he  took  in  the  Yankee  society  and  charac 
teristics,  and  the  great  admiration  he  had  for  Yankee 
wit.  I  remember  his  once  telling  me  about  meeting 
somewhere  on  Cape  Cod  a  native  Yankee  humorist. 
He  asked  this  man  if  he  would  have  something  to 
drink.  The  man  said,  "I  guess  I'll  have  some  of 
Hawkins's  whetstone."  This  was,  no  doubt,  a  cur 
rent  joke  of  the  day,  and  had  reference  to  a  noted 
temperance  lecturer,  named  Hawkins,  whose  elo 
quence  was  profanely  said  to  be  assisted  by  a  par 
ticular  preparation  of  alcohol.  Of  that  man,  Mr. 
Lowell  said: — "He  was  a  real  humorist.  It  was  not 
merely  that  he  was  funny  to  listen  to.  He  knew  he 
was  funny."  Lowell  was,  of  course,  full  of  Yankee 
stories,  and  told  them  admirably.  One  or  two  I 
have  heard  him  tell  come  into  my  mind  as  I  write. 
One  day  a  man  came  into  the  office  who  was  a  neigh- 


Impressions  of  Lowell  151 

bor  of  Lowell's  in  Cambridge.  Lowell  told  us  that 
his  parents  were  Millerites,  that  is,  believed  in  the 
second  coming  of  Christ  and  the  approaching  end 
of  the  world.  The  mother  was  a  devout  believer, 
the  father  holding  the  same  faith,  or,  for  the  sake  of 
domestic  peace,  pretending  to  hold  it.  Late  one 
night,  when  there  was  a  very  heavy  fall  of  snow  on 
the  ground,  the  old  woman  was  awakened  by  a  noise 
from  downstairs,  which  she  at  once  supposed  meant 
the  end  of  the  world,  and  she  accordingly  woke  her 
husband  up,  saying: — "John,  the  Lord's  a-comin'; 
I  hear  His  chariot  wheels."  He  replied: — "You 
old  fool,  to  think  the  Lord  would  come  on  wheels, 
when  there's  such  good  sleddin'."  He  told  these 
stories  with  an  excellent  imitation  of  the  Yankee 
speech. 

I  went  with  him  one  day  to  see  the  American  Ad 
miral  Howell,  on  his  flagship  at  Gravesend  on  the 
Thames.  We  dined  with  the  Admiral  in  his  cabin, 
when  something  was  said  which  brought  out  the  fol 
lowing  story  from  Lowell.  There  was  a  time,  some 
sixty  years  ago,  when  the  fastest  sailing-ships  in  the 
world  were  built  in  the  shipyards  of  New  England. 
About  that  time  an  American  clipper  and  an  English 
yacht  were  entering  the  harbor  of  Genoa  together, 
and  there  was  a  race  between  the  clipper  and  the 
yacht;  and  the  clipper  won  in  the  race.  When  the 
two  vessels  were  in  port,  the  owner  of  the  English 
yacht,  a  person  of  polished  manners,  came  on  board 
the  American,  and  very  handsomely  congratulated 
the  captain  of  the  clipper  upon  his  achievement, 
which  he  said  was  all  the  more  remarkable  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  it  was  the  first  time  that  his  yacht 
had  ever  been  beaten.  The  old  Yankee  captain  re- 


152  A  Virginian  Village 

plied,  "Well  now,  that's  curious.     It's  the  first  time 
the  Polly  Ann  ever  beat  anything." 

But  if  Mr.  Lowell  was  not  distinctively  a  Yankee, 
the  fact  must  not  be  overlooked  that  he  was  a  very 
natural  and  characteristic  outcome  of  the  peculiar 
life  of  eastern  Massachusetts.  The  neighborhood 
of  Boston,  during  the  first  half  of  this  century,  had 
far  more  intellectual  activity  than  any  other  part 
of  the  country.  The  Unitarian  movement  began 
in  the  first  years  of  the  century,  and  kept  expanding 
until,  about  the  time  of  Mr.  Lowell's  early  manhood, 
it  culminated  in  the  New  England  Transcenden 
talism.  Throughout  these  years  the  little  com 
munity  of  eastern  Massachusetts  was  stirred  by 
discussions  to  which  the  rest  of  the  country  was  a 
stranger.  One  has  only  to  talk  with  old  people  near 
Boston  to  perceive  how  much  the  neighborhood  was 
absorbed  in  these  discussions.  Years  ago,  for  in 
stance,  I  remember  being  at  Bar  Harbor,  Maine, 
in  the  company  of  two  New  England  clergymen, 
who  spoke  of  some  event  as  having  happened  "be 
fore  the  war."  Supposing  that  they  referred  to  the 
Civil  War,  I  asked: — "Did  not  that  happen  in  the 
early  part  of  the  century?"  They  replied: — "We 
are  speaking  of  the  religious  war."  Lowell's  father 
was  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  the  son's  childhood 
and  youth  were  passed  among  men  who  had  taken 
part  in  those  battles.  These  discussions,  of  course, 
awakened  his  intellect,  but  they  also  gave  his  mind 
a  strong  impulse  in  a  spiritual  and  ideal  direction. 
His  strong  Puritan  characteristics  he  no  doubt  owed 
to  these  early  surroundings.  It  is  to  be  questioned 
whether  there  have  ever  existed  people  more  dis 
tinctively  Puritan  than  these  New  England  Uni- 


Impressions  of  Lowell  153 

tarians.  Under  the  old  Calvinistic  belief,  there  was 
a  place  for  sin;  sin  had  under  that  system  a  recog 
nized  position  and  in  a  sense  a  kind  of  respectability. 
But  in  the  polite  and  refined  religion  of  the  new 
sect  there  appeared  to  be  no  place  for  sin  and  the 
sinner.  There  was  in  the  remote  glance  with  which 
that  sect  looked  out  upon  evil  from  its  library  win 
dows  a  Puritanism  as  extreme  as  that  to  be  found  in 
the  more  violent  reprobation  of  its  orthodox  prede 
cessors.  Along  with  this  latent  austerity,  however, 
there  was,  of  course,  a  very  real  gentleness.  There 
was  also  a  sincere  and  sanguine  faith  in  the  high 
capabilities  of  human  nature.  A  high  conception 
of  human  nature  was  indeed  a  general  characteristic 
of  the  Massachusetts  society  of  the  time.  It  showed 
itself  not  only  in  their  religions,  but  in  their  literary 
and  practical  movements,  such  as  Transcendentalism 
and  Abolitionism.  Lowell  came  to  early  manhood 
just  at  the  time  when  the  little  world  about  Boston 
was  most  agog  with  these  ideas,  and  they  were  of  a 
kind  to  influence  profoundly  a  high-minded  young 
man.  They  were  ideas,  one  might  add,  particularly 
suitable  to  youth.  It  was  a  propitious  time  for  the 
young,  more  so,  one  would  think,  than  the  practical 
period  of  the  war,  or  than  the  cooler  and  more  critical 
days  that  have  since  succeeded.  These  new  ideas 
must  have  been  very  alluring  to  the  more  clever  and 
generous  among  the  young  people  of  that  day.  Vir 
tue  was  itself,  one  would  think,  unusually  attractive 
then.  It  was  a  time  when  the  primroses  grew  along 
the  straight  and  narrow  path,  and  the  Wicket  Gate 
was  as  pretty  and  as  rustic  as  in  the  old  pictures  in 
"Pilgrim's  Progress."  Lowell  had,  to  a  marked  de 
gree,  the  characteristics  of  the  society  in  which  he 


154  A  Virginian  Village 

was  brought  up,  particularly  its  spirituality  and 
delicate  moral  sense.  This,  no  doubt,  goes  with 
out  saying,  and  the  statement  of  it  may  be  some 
what  superfluous.  But  it  was  a  most  important 
personal  trait  of  his,  one  closely  connected,  by  the 
way,  with  that  elasticity  and  youthfulness  in  which 
he  was  so  singularly  gifted.  In  this  connection,  an 
incident  comes  into  my  mind,  which  may  indeed 
seem  scarcely  worth  mentioning,  but  which  gave  me 
at  the  moment  a  strong  sense  of  his  instinctive  love 
of  the  nice  and  the  superior,  and  of  the  character  of 
the  society  in  which  his  early  associations  had  been 
cast.  I  was  dining  one  night  at  his  house,  and  sat 
next  the  late  Prof.  Gray,  a  person  of  most  attractive 
appearance.  Mr.  Lowell  came  with  me  to  the  door, 
and,  with  reference  to  Prof.  Gray,  said: — "He  always 
seems  to  me  like  someone  who  has  lived  all  his  life 
among  flowers."  At  the  time  of  Prof.  Gray's  death 
I  may  add,  I  saw  in  the  papers  some  beautiful  lines 
which  Lowell  had  written  about  him,  and  which  I 
quote  from  memory: 

Just  Heaven  preserve  his  life,  well  spent, 

Whose  indefatigable  hours 
Have  been  as  gaily  innocent 

And  fragrant  as  his  flowers. 

Something  must  be  said  of  Mr.  Lowell's  residence 
in  England.  It  was  his  good  fortune  to  do  more, 
perhaps,  than  any  other  individual  has  done  to  make 
the  two  great  branches  of  the  English-speaking 
world  conscious  of  their  essential  unity.  His  ap 
pointment  as  Minister  to  England  was  an  accident, 
due  to  the  sudden  and  much  regretted  retirement 
of  Mr.  Welsh,  but  the  appointment  proved  to  be  a 


Impressions  of  Lowell  155 

very  fortunate  one.  An  English  critic  has  observed 
that  it  was  remarkable  that  Mr.  Lowell  should  have 
been  so  successful  in  English  society,  coming  to 
England,  as  he  did,  late  in  life.  But  in  truth  he 
seems  to  me  to  have  come  just  at  the  right  time.  In 
some  reflections  of  his  upon  travel,  Mr.  Lowell  says 
"that  a  man  should  have  travelled  around  himself 
and  the  great  terra  incognita  just  outside  of  and  in 
side  his  own  threshold  before  he  undertakes  voyages 
of  discovery  to  other  worlds."  He  had  fulfilled  these 
conditions  before  he  visited  England.  I  doubt  if  there 
was  any  time  in  his  life  when  he  was  better  fitted  for 
the  social  enjoyments  and  advantages  of  London  than 
at  the  time  he  came.  He  had  ripe  experience  and  an 
abundance  of  various  and  entertaining  knowledge, 
and  united  with  these  qualities  the  attractive  youth- 
fulness  of  which  mention  has  been  made.  And  in 
leaving  home,  he  could  not  have  gone  to  a  better 
place  than  England.  He  was  fitted  to  find  enjoy 
ment  anywhere,  but  England  was  a  country  of  which 
he  was  especially  fond.  He  liked  the  climate.  He 
used  to  say  that  the  English  atmosphere  was  a  "fat" 
air,  and  that  it  supported  him.  I  dare  say  he  liked 
and  was  soothed  by  the  English  landscape,  not  so 
wild  as  his  own,  but  so  soft  and  vague  and  so  suitable 
to  the  good  food  and  lodging  to  be  had  in  English 
country  houses.  His  buoyant  and  sprightly  dis 
position,  no  doubt,  took  pleasure  in  the  gay  aspects 
of  London  in  the  season,  when  Bond  Street,  surely 
near  Lubin's  shop  the  best  smelling  street  in  the 
world,  has  received  a  flood  of  the  tepid  and  ephemeral 
sunshine  of  those  islands,  and  the  shops  and  pave 
ments  are  filled  with  the  best  specimens,  male  and 
female,  of  a  particularly  handsome  race. 


156  A  Virginian  Village 

It  was  somewhat  odd  that  he  should  have  taken 
with  such  zest  to  London  society,  considering  the 
solitary  life  he  had  led  at  Cambridge.  Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  speak  of  it  as  solitary;  a  life  passed 
with  a  few  chosen  friends  gives  perhaps  the  greatest 
social  enjoyment  that  it  is  possible  to  have.  But  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  till  the  time  of  his  appointment  to 
Spain,  he  seems  to  have  gone  very  little  in  general 
society.  He  is  said  to  have  passed  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  in  the  company  of  some  half  a  dozen  peo 
ple.  There  was  a  populous  city  a  few  miles  distant 
from  Cambridge,  with  plenty  of  good  society,  which 
would  have  been  glad  to  welcome  him.  But  I  be 
lieve  he  did  not  go  in  that  society  at  all.  Nor  do  I 
think  he  would  have  found  the  conditions  of  the  so 
ciety  of  any  other  American  city  any  more  to  his 
liking.  And  yet  he  no  sooner  goes  abroad  than  he 
is  discovered  to  possess  very  great  talents  for  general 
society.  These  talents,  I  should  add,  were  an  im 
portant  part  of  his  nature.  In  truth  Lowell  was  a 
man  born  to  success,  born  to  shine.  Had  it  not  been 
for  his  London  residence,  one  of  his  most  striking 
qualities,  except  as  it  appears  in  his  writings,  would 
scarcely  have  been  known,  or  at  any  rate  would  not 
have  obtained  general  recognition:  I  mean  a  brilliant, 
scintillating  quality.  He  had  a  power  of  shining,  like 
some  bird,  the  sheen  of  whose  bright  plumage  sends 
back  the  rays  of  the  sun.  It  was,  however,  in  general 
society  and  especially  in  literary  society,  I  should  say, 
that  his  success  lay  rather  than  in  smart  and  fash 
ionable  company. 

Mr.  Lowell,  of  course,  enjoyed  and  highly  appre 
ciated  the  great  consideration  in  which  he  was  held 
in  London.  Some  people  indeed  had  an  impression 


Impressions  of  Lowell  157 

that  he  was  a  little  spoiled  by  it,  which  was  certainly 
not  true.  Considering  his  buoyant  and  elastic 
temper,  it  was  rather  remarkable  that  he  was  not 
more  affected  than  he  was  by  his  great  success.  But 
he  had  a  native  modesty,  a  just  sense  of  the  propor 
tion  of  things,  and  an  amiability  of  disposition  which 
always  stayed  by  him.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  in 
the  least  uplifted  by  the  official  honors  which  came 
on  him  late  in  life,  and  which  would  scarcely  have 
come  to  him  in  any  country  but  the  United  States. 
I  remember  one  remark  of  his  which  showed  his 
feeling  on  this  point.  I  came  into  the  office  one  day 
just  after  having  seen  the  Lord  Mayor's  show  pass 
through  Parliament  Street.  Mention  was  made  of 
the  anecdote  told  in  Hazlitt's  "Conversations  with 
Northcote"  about  Alderman  Boydell,  who  rose  to 
be  an  Alderman  from  a  very  humble  station.  North- 
cote  once  asked  him  whether  he  was  not  gratified 
by  his  fine  coach  and  gilt  trappings.  Boydell  said: 
— "Ah,  there  was  one  who  would  have  been  pleased 
at  it,  but  her  I  have  lost." 

"That  is  perfectly  true,"  said  Mr.  Lowell.  "The 
people  for  whose  opinion  you  care  most  are  no  longer 
living;  when  I  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain,  I 
remember  thinking:  if  my  father  were  only  alive  to 
see  this,  I  should  be  pleased  by  it."  This  was  his 
feeling  about  official  honors.  Nor  do  I  think  he  set 
a  very  high  estimate  upon  his  writings  and  literary 
abilities.  He  once  told  me  that  he  said  to  a  young 
Englishman  who  had  been  introduced  to  him  at  Ma 
drid,  and  who  had  said  that  he  had  never  read  his 
works: — "Well,  I  do  not  regard  them  as  necessary  to 
a  liberal  education."  I  may  be  allowed  here  to  re 
mark  that  poets  and  artists  will,  in  point  of  modesty, 


158  A  Virginian  Village 

compare  very  favorably  with  any  other  class  of  men. 
A  very  superior  man  in  almost  any  walk  of  life  is 
not  likely  to  be  conceited;  but  I  believe  it  is  true  that 
poets  and  men  of  genius  are,  as  a  rule,  less  conceited 
than  men  of  talent,  than  men  who  can  do  something. 
At  any  rate,  men  of  talent,  where  they  are  conceited, 
have  a  steadier  and  more  ingrained  pride.  There 
are  several  reasons  for  this  distinction.  In  the  first 
place,  the  poets  see  over  a  wider  field.  Then  the 
man  of  talent  can  prove  his  ability,  while  the  artist 
cannot  prove  his.  The  man  who  has  successfully 
managed  a  railroad  or  conducted  a  newspaper  may 
point  to  his  achievement  as  evidence  of  his  ability. 
But  no  artist  can  prove  that  his  poem  or  his  picture 
is  a  good  one;  and  it  is  in  the  power  of  almost  anybody 
to  make  him,  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  think  that 
his  work  is  nonsense.  But  conceit  is  in  all  men  largely 
a  matter  of  native  bent;  and  Mr.  Lowell,  anxious  as 
he  was  to  be  liked,  and  ready  as  he  was  to  be  admired, 
did  not  have  much  of  it  in  his  character. 

The  literary  and  public  expressions  of  an  author 
whom  one  knows  are,  in  one's  own  mind,  mixed  up 
with,  and  are  scarcely  distinguishable  from,  his  more 
personal  and  individual  expressions;  and  I  may 
therefore  be  permitted,  in  conclusion,  some  reflec 
tions  upon  Mr.  Lowell's  published  works.  Of  the 
poems  not  in  dialect,  there  are  two  or  three  relating 
to  the  events  of  his  early  life,  which  are  in  everyone's 
mouth.  In  these  feeling  and  passion  express  them 
selves  in  true  music;  one  can  hear  a  voice,  with  the 
sweet  and  rich  timbre  of  early  manhood,  really  sing 
ing  among  the  lilacs  and  apple-blossoms  of  the  New 
England  June.  The  poems  recited  on  various  oc 
casions  after  the  war  have  been  greatly  admired, 


Impressions  of  Lowell  159 

and  yet  they  do  not  seem  so  natural  as  those  earlier 
ones.  I  have  seen  them  described  as  "rhetorical," 
which  they  no  doubt  are  in  a  sense,  having  been 
written  to  be  delivered — written,  as  it  were,  by  ear, 
as  a  lecture  is  prepared.  There  is  still  another  class 
of  poems,  not  in  dialect,  in  which  Lowell  was  particu 
larly  successful.  I  mean  those  in  which  the  serious 
and  the  comic  are  brought  together,  and  which  glance 
in  these  two  directions.  I  remember  his  once  coming 
into  the  office  and  reading  us  a  poem,  in  which  the 
moon  was  described  as  rising  over  a  Cambridge 
boarding-house.  That  was  very  like  him — the  moon 
and  a  Cambridge  boarding-house!  I  do  not  find 
the  poem  in  his  latest  volume  of  verse,  but  it  was 
pretty  enough  to  have  been  preserved.  This  was 
a  vein  which  was  very  natural  to  him,  and  in  which 
he  was  highly  successful. 

In  all  of  these  poems,  as  well  as  in  those  in  dialect, 
there  is,  to  my  mind,  a  cheery  vigor,  which  I  can 
best  describe  by  likening  it  to  the  bright  aspect  of 
the  New  England  landscape  in  midwinter.  He  liked 
winter,  by  the  way,  as  people  of  a  strong  constitution 
are  apt  to  do,  and  he  has  written  "A  Good  Word 
for  Winter."  One  might  say  that  the  gaiety  of 
disposition  which  he  had  so  strongly  was  of  the 
Northern  rather  than  of  the  Southern  kind.  The 
sun  shines  in  a  sky  without  a  cloud,  over  a  wide 
domain  of  dazzling  white,  and  the  brilliant  atmos 
phere  is  filled  with  the  flying  snow-dust.  He  once 
told  me  that  he  was  of  Scandinavian  ancestry,  and 
I  can  imagine  that  there  was  something  of  this  in  his 
verse  and  in  his  nature.  I  can  fancy,  as  I  read  his 
poetry  or  remember  his  conversation,  a  skald  of  the 
Norsemen,  with  blond  beard  and  ruddy  cheek  and 


160  A  Virginian  Village 

merry  bright  eyes,  singing  in  a  snow  trench  and 
quaffing  deep  draughts  of  the  legendary  mead. 
I  remember  thinking  this  when  one  day  at  the  office, 
in  the  midst  of  some  official  stationery,  sealing  wax, 
etc.,  we  had  a  chop  and  a  bottle  of  Bass,  of  which 
drink  he  was  very  fond,  but  which  was  not  good  for 
his  gout.  Do  you  know  how  the  sap  runs  from  the 
side  of  the  sugar-maple?  That  was  very  like  the 
clear  current  of  his  verse.  He  combined  brightness 
with  elastic  strength.  His  mind  appeared  to  me  to 
have  a  tough  elasticity,  like  the  supple  fibre  of  a 
hickory  sapling  or  the  rebound  of  ivory. 

But  his  greatest  work  was  the  dialect  poetry,  and 
by  that  he  will  be  best  remembered.  I  have,  indeed, 
heard  it  questioned  whether  poetry  which  concerns 
events  already  forgotten,  and  the  explanation  of 
which  posterity  will  have  to  look  up  in  histories  and 
cyclopaedias,  can  be  sure  of  being  read  in  the  future. 
The  poetry  of  Dryden  is  an  example  of  poetry  of 
this  kind  which  must  always  hold  its  place,  but 
undoubtedly,  as  a  rule,  such  verse  has  small  chance 
of  living.  Mr.  Lowell's  poetry  has  also  the  disad 
vantage  of  being  in  a  dialect — a  dialect,  moreover, 
the  memory  of  which,  owing  to  the  powerful  unifying 
influences  at  work  in  our  society,  must  soon  disappear 
from  among  men.  But  "The  Biglow  Papers"  have 
on  their  side  some  weighty  considerations.  They 
have  immense  animal  spirits;  I  doubt  if  you  will 
anywhere  find  verse  of  the  kind,  in  writing  which 
the  poet  has  had  more  fun;  and  animal  spirits  is 
perhaps  a  quality  to  which  posterity  is  partial,  just 
as  it  is  notoriously  averse  to  the  recondite  and  the 
abstruse.  Moreover,  these  poems  have  the  United 
States  behind  them.  The  country  cannot  afford 


Impressions  of  Lowell  161 

to  neglect  them.  The  verse  which  we  have  of  this 
character  is  at  the  best  very  scant  and  is  in  extent, 
at  any  rate,  most  disproportionate  to  the  greatness 
of  the  subject.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  there  is  any 
where  to  be  found  a  piece  of  European,  or,  I  dare 
say,  Asiatic  territory,  which  has  not  been  better 
sung  than  our  great  empire.  Furthermore,  this 
country  will  always  take  especial  care  of  the  litera 
ture  relating  to  the  Civil  War.  Throughout  the  long 
years  of  material  prosperity,  which  to  every  appear 
ance  lie  before  us,  that  epoch  will  always  have  a 
great  interest  for  the  people.  How  colorless  are  the 
issues  with  which  our  politics  were  concerned  during 
the  later  years  of  his  life  compared  with  those  is 
sues  of  human  passion  with  which  we  were  occupied 
during  the  Civil  War,  and  how  colorless  are  they 
likely  to  remain — unless,  indeed,  the  issues  are  to 
concern  questions  of  private  property,  in  which  case 
they  will  be  anything  but  colorless.  How  political 
we  were  in  those  days  of  the  war,  and  what  a 
capacity  the  country  showed  for  self-sacrifice  and 
for  interest  in  ideas!  We  can  now  appreciate  these 
qualities  in  the  retrospect,  for  we  are  beginning 
to  look  back  with  a  certain  incredulity  upon  a  time 
when  people  were  interested  in  something  besides 
making  money.  The  period  of  the  war  had  further 
more  its  tragical  distinctions.  Never  again,  it  is  prob 
able  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  the  public  stage  be  filled 
by  events  and  by  scenes  so  dramatic.  Hence  it  is 
that  works  which  portray  with  genius  that  time  and 
subject  will  be  sure  of  a  great  and  permanent  place  in 
our  literature.  On  these  grounds,  therefore,  conjointly 
with  its  high  intrinsic  excellence,  one  may  anticipate 
for  Mr.  Lowell's  dialect  poetry  a  long  career  of  fame. 


LONDON  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOWELL 

THE  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Lowell,  I  dined  with 
him  at  Longfellow's  house  in  Cambridge.  I 
had  brought  a  letter  to  Longfellow  from  Mr.  William 
Cullen  Bryant.  I  was  somewhat  surprised  by  Long 
fellow's  appearance.  He  was  shorter  than  I  had  ex 
pected  and  inclined  to  stoutness.  But  he  was  a 
beautiful  person,  and  one  of  the  most  attractive  of 
men.  That  was  what  everyone  said  of  him.  I  re 
member  particularly  his  voice,  which  was  very  mu 
sical.  There  was  a  certain  very  agreeable  delibera 
tion  in  his  way  of  speaking.  Then  the  poet  and 
scholar  were  so  large  a  part  of  his  nature,  and  he  had 
such  a  feeling  for  the  romance  of  knowledge  and  of 
literature.  I  remember  the  charming  voice  and 
manner  in  which  he  told  me  that  the  Italian  wine 
which  he  gave  me  at  dinner  was,  he  believed,  the 
Massic  of  Horace.  The  benignity  and  courtesy 
which  were  his  characteristics  bore,  I  fancy,  some 
relation  to  his  beauty.  The  world  looks  kindly  upon 
a  beautiful  person  and  it  is  natural  that  such  a  person 
should  return  the  world's  amiable  regard.  This 
beauty  and  grace  were  no  doubt  qualities  which  had 
always  been  Longfellow's.  My  old  friend,  George 
Ripley,  the  founder  and  head  of  Brook  Farm,  told 
me  that  he  once  saw  Longfellow,  then  a  young  pro 
fessor  at  Bowdoin,  give  some  degrees  to  the  members 
of  a  class  of  young  men  at  a  Bowdoin  commencement, 
and  how  impressed  he  was  with  the  grace  and  es 
pecially  with  the  good  feeling  which  he  showed. 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         163 

As  I  came  into  the  drawing  room  at  Longfellow's 
house  when  I  went  to  dine  with  him,  I  saw  a  man 
sitting  at  one  end  of  the  room,  whom  I  recognized  as 
resembling  the  photographs  of  Lowell.  He  was  a 
thick-set  man,  rather  under  the  middle  height,  with 
a  heavy  red  beard.  I  had  never  met  or  seen  him  be 
fore.  Of  course  I  knew  "The  Biglow  Papers"  almost 
by  heart,  as  we  all  did  in  those  days,  and  admired 
the  introduction  to  the  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  and 
some  of  his  shorter  poems.  But  I  could  not  like  his 
prose  things,  especially  his  critical  writings.  They 
seemed  to  be  statements  of  trite  and  generally  ac 
cepted  ideas,  expressed  with  an  air  of  novelty  and 
with  much  affectation.  Until  you  got  to  know  him 
there  was  something  of  this  self-consciousness  and 
affectation  in  his  appearance  and  manner.  I  never 
afterwards  saw  him  so  affected  as  I  thought  he  was 
at  this  dinner.  That  may  have  been  because  I  was 
expecting  something  of  the  kind.  I  remember  he 
said  to  one  of  the  Miss  Longfellows: — "You  should 
read  Virgil;  he's  the  sweet  fellow,"  in  what  seemed 
to  me  a  pedantic  and  affected  manner,  although,  of 
course,  the  advice  and  the  sentiment  were  unexcep 
tionable. 

After  dinner  I  went  with  Longfellow  and  Lowell 
into  a  smoking  room.  Longfellow  was  most  agree 
able  and  entertaining.  I  remember  his  telling  this 
story.  His  brother-in-law,  Tom  Appleton,  was  a 
spiritualist;  he  was  rich  and  I  presume  did  a  good 
deal  for  mediums  and  such  persons,  and  was  as  a 
consequence  highly  regarded  by  them.  Appleton 
had  asked  Longfellow  to  go  to  see  a  medium  of  whom 
he  thought  highly.  Longfellow  did  go  to  see  him, 
and  was  invited  to  put  some  question  to  the  man, 


164  A  Virginian  Village 

which  would  test  his  ability  as  a  medium.  Long 
fellow  asked  him  who  was  the  author  of  a  treatise, 
written  during  the  Middle  Ages,  upon  the  capacity 
of  spirits  to  move  material  objects,  such  as  chairs 
and  tables.  It  seems  that  such  a  treatise  was  written 
by  Thomas  Aquinas.  As  the  medium  was  not  very 
ready  with  his  answer,  Longfellow  in  the  goodness 
of  his  heart  tried  to  help  him  by  pronouncing  slowly 
the  letters  T-h-o-m-a-s  A-  "Tom  Appleton!"  said 
the  man  eagerly.  Lowell  had  with  him  the  poem 
which  he  was  to  read  the  next  day  at  the  Lexington 
Centennial  and  which  he  had  brought  to  read  to 
Longfellow.  He  gave  no  intimation  that  he  wished 
me  to  hear  it;  so  I  joined  the  ladies.  In  a  little 
while  Longfellow  came  in  and  said  that  Lowell  had 
gone  home,  and  that  he  had  written  a  beautiful 
poem. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  the 
friendly  feeling  towards  one  another  of  the  distin 
guished  writers  who  at  that  time  lived  in  and  around 
Boston.  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  there  is  nothing 
in  the  world  more  ridiculous  than  the  reciprocal 
civility  of  authors.  He  thought  it  very  hollow.  But 
it  was  sincere  enough  among  those  Boston  writers. 
Perhaps  they  were  too  good  to  be  jealous.  I  doubt 
if  there  ever  existed  anywhere,  since  the  first  literary 
fellow  scratched  his  hieroglyphics  on  stone,  a  com 
pany  of  such  good  and  respectable  literary  men  as 
they  were.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  there  was  a 
warm  personal  regard  between  Lowell  and  Longfel 
low.  I  may  here  jot  down  that  at  the  time  of  Long 
fellow's  death  I  remember  Lowell  coming  one  morn 
ing  into  the  Legation  and  saying  as  he  stood  before 
the  fire — "I  miss  him  in  Cambridge,"  meaning  when 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell          165 

he  was  thinking  about  Cambridge,  knowing  that 
Longfellow  was  not  there. 

I  fancy  the  somewhat  affected  manner  which  I 
observed  in  Lowell  on  first  meeting  him  was  to  some 
extent  his  Cambridge  manner,  or  rather  his  manner 
to  strangers,  especially  to  the  young  literary  small 
fry  who  came  there  as  visitors.  He  was,  I  suppose, 
a  good  deal  of  a  little  god  at  Cambridge.  He  knew 
but  few  people,  and  they  were  intimate  friends  or 
devoted  admirers.  He  spent  a  great  many  of  his 
evenings  with  these  friends,  meeting  them  several 
times  a  week  for  whist. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Lowell  was  in  Cincinnati 
at  the  Republican  Convention  which  met  there  in 
1876.  He  was  a  delegate  to  the  Convention  from 
Massachusetts,  and  I  was  one  of  a  half  a  dozen  New 
York  men  who  were  mugwumps,  or  what  a  few  years 
later  would  have  been  called  mugwumps,  who  had 
come  to  Cincinnati,  hoping  to  be  of  some  assistance 
in  the  nomination  of  the  reform  candidate,  Mr. 
Bristow.  Mr.  Lowell  was  in  sympathy  with  us  and 
came  to  our  rooms.  He  had  always  been  the  friend 
of  truth  and  of  honest  and  just  causes,  and  he  was 
with  us  in  our  opposition  to  carpet  bag  government 
in  the  South  and  in  our  hope  for  the  reform  of  the 
civil  service.  He  had  not  the  least  bit  of  his  Cam 
bridge  manner  then,  and  showed  himself  to  be  just 
what  he  was,  a  friendly  and  kind-hearted  man,  who 
especially  wished  to  be  liked. 

When  Mr.  Hayes  became  President,  Lowell  was 
appointed  Minister  to  Spain.  At  about  the  same 
time  I  was  sent  back  as  a  secretary  to  London.  I 
saw  more  or  less  of  him  in  London,  when  he  was 
on  his  way  to  Madrid.  In  1879  he  was  transferred 


1 66  A  Virginian  Village 

from  Madrid  to  London.  I  was  under  him  for  four 
or  five  years  from  that  time.  I  would  see  him  daily 
for  several  hours  at  the  Legation,  and  was  a  great 
deal  at  his  house.  The  Legation  consisted  of  the 
Minister  and  the  two  secretaries,  Mr.  W.  J.  Hoppin, 
the  first  secretary,  and  myself.  Some  years  later 
Commander  (now  Admiral)  Chadwick  was  sent  out 
as  naval  attache.  Mrs.  Lowell's  health  was  not  such 
as  to  permit  her  to  go  into  company,  and  about  once 
a  week  Hoppin  and  myself  dined  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lowell.  I  think  Lowell's  idea  in  having  us  was  that 
it  helped  to  entertain  his  wife.  He  had,  however,  the 
virtue  of  hospitality  in  a  high  degree.  Mrs.  Lowell 
was  extremely  nice, — a  sensible,  sincere,  kind- 
hearted  woman,  of  a  dignified  and  fine  appearance. 
Mr.  Hoppin  was  a  cultivated  and  very  agreeable 
man,  about  as  good  a  type  of  American  gentleman 
as  it  would  be  possible  to  find.  He  was  rather  too 
old  a  man  to  be  a  secretary,  being  a  good  deal  older 
than  Lowell.  He  once  told  me  that  he  had  passed 
some  days  as  a  guest  of  Miss  Maria  Edgeworth  at 
her  house  in  Ireland,  which  is  going  a  good  way  back. 
He  was  also  perhaps  a  man  of  too  much  position  to 
hold  such  a  place.  I  was  thirty  years  or  more  his 
junior,  but  when  I  wanted  a  nice  young  fellow  to  dine 
and  go  to  the  play  with,  I  knew  no  one  I  preferred  to 
Hoppin.  He  was  a  man  of  excellent  sense  and  much 
humor,  and  very  simple  and  straightforward.  He 
was  a  New  Englander  by  birth,  but  had  been  nearly 
all  his  life  a  New  York  lawyer.  He  had  been  one  of 
our  early  critics  of  art,  a  friend  no  doubt  of  the  Hud 
son  River  School  of  Painters,  had  written  a  volume 
of  poems  which  I  have  never  seen,  but  have  always 
meant  to  look  up  for  old  acquaintance*  sake,  was 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell          167 

one  of  the  founders  of  the  Century  Club,  had  been 
President  of  the  Union  League  Club  and,  without 
taking  the  least  trouble  about  it,  had  always  been  a 
figure  in  New  York  society.  At  this  time  he  was  in 
poor  health  and  at  our  weekly  dinners  at  Lowell's 
a  particular  kind  of  dinner  had  to  be  cooked  for  him. 
At  these  dinners  Lowell  did  most  of  the  talking  and 
was  extremely  entertaining  and  charming. 

With  Mrs.  Lowell's  improved  health  Lowell's 
spirits  became  brighter.  In  Spain  he  had  been  very 
unhappy,  owing  to  his  wife's  illness.  How  much  he 
must  have  suffered  at  that  time  I  gathered  from  a 
remark  he  once  let  fall.  On  Dispatch  days,  when 
there  was  often  a  good  deal  of  work  to  be  done,  he 
and  I  would  be  together  for  three  or  four  hours  and 
would  lunch  together.  At  such  times  he  would  be 
come  very  communicative.  In  speaking  of  his  life 
in  Madrid,  he  said  there  were  many  times  when  his 
feeling  was  that  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  be 
lying  upon  his  back  in  some  churchyard  looking  up 
through  eight  feet  of  clean  gravel. 

After  his  wife's  recovery,  the  Lowells  gave  dinner 
parties,  mostly  to  their  English  friends.  He  would, 
however,  often  have  two  or  three  Americans,  who 
were  going  through  London,  and  these  were  the 
evenings  at  his  house  which  I  most  enjoyed,  for  if 
you  live  in  a  foreign  country,  you  want  the  society 
of  your  own  people,  when  you  can  get  it.  I  was  so 
much  younger  than  the  other  members  of  the  Lega 
tion  that,  although  a  bachelor  well  on  in  the  thirties, 
I  think  I  must  have  represented  youth  to  these  older 
men.  This  incident,  which  I  recall,  will  give  an  idea 
of  the  way  they  regarded  me.  A  young  lady  from 
Boston  had  dined  at  Lowell's  house,  whom  I  had 


1 68  A  Virginian  Village 

taken  down  to  dinner.  Hoppin  and  I  were  in  the 
hall  with  our  overcoats  on,  with  Lowell,  waiting  to 
go.  A  hansom  had  been  called  for  the  young  lady. 
Lowell  said, — "Hoppin,  who  is  going  home  with  this 
girl?"  Hoppin  did  not  seem  very  keen  about  it. 
Lowell  turned  to  me  and  said, — "As  for  you,  you 
rascal,  you  sha'n't  go  with  her."  I  believe  the  young 
lady  went  home  alone. 

Mr.  Lowell  was  a  very  indulgent  chief.  I  re 
member  being  late  at  some  of  his  dinners — once  I 
think  I  had  the  meanness  to  lay  it  on  the  hansom — 
and  got  nothing  worse  than — "Well,  we're  glad  to  see 
you  any  way,"  which  is  considerably  milder  treatment 
than  I  get  now  from  my  own  relations  for  the  same 
offense.  Indeed  I  scarcely  ever  knew  him  to  make  a 
complaint  of  any  kind  of  either  of  his  secretaries. 
Yes,  I  do  recall  this  incident.  He  came  into  the 
Legation  one  morning  and  told  us  that  the  day  before 
the  then  Prince  of  Wales  (Edward  VII)  had  said 
to  him, — "You  give  your  secretaries  a  wigging." 
It  seems  that  we  had  failed  to  tell  him  something 
which  he  could  not  have  been  expected  to  know,  and 
which  we  should  have  told  him.  "So, "said  Lowell, 
"you  are  in  receipt  of  a  wigging." 

Mr.  Lowell  had  to  the  full  that  dependence  upon 
the  good  opinion  and  the  friendly  sentiments  of 
others,  which  is  characteristic  of  artists.  I  think  this 
was  one  of  his  attractions.  I  remember  once  talking 
with  Mr.  Roden  Noel,  a  poet  and  a  very  agreeable 
man,  about  him.  We  were  comparing  him  with  a 
certain  universally  admired  English  literary  man. 
Mr.  Noel  thought  Lowell  was  much  more  attractive, 
"winning,"  was  the  word  he  used,  a  quality  which 
was  in  part  the  result  of  his  wish  to  be  liked.  Lowell's 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         169 

friendships  were  chiefly  with  English  literary  men, 
between  whom  and  himself  there  was  that  freema 
sonry  which  exists  everywhere  among  scholars.  I 
hardly  think  he  had  the  same  success  in  fashionable 
company.  Lowell  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  men  of 
genius  are  rarely  successful  in  that  kind  of  society. 
They  have  not  the  power  of  suiting  their  behavior 
and  their  conversation  to  other  people,  which  is  a 
condition  of  success  in  that  world.  I  don't  think 
I  ever  knew  one  of  them  who  seemed  to  have  a  real 
gift  for  that  kind  of  life.  Napoleon,  when  in  Egypt 
just  before  a  great  battle,  noticed  that  the  Egyptian 
cannon  were  mounted  upon  wooden  stands  and  could 
shoot  only  in  the  direction  in  which  they  were 
pointed,  so  that  all  that  Napoleon,  whose  guns  were 
on  wheels  and  could  be  pointed  in  any  direction, 
had  to  do  was  to  move  his  troops  to  one  side  and  out 
of  the  range  of  Egyptian  guns.  Men  of  genius  are 
like  these  Egyptians.  Their  expressions  have  much 
more  relation  to  their  own  conditions  than  to  the 
conditions  and  locality  of  those  at  whom  these  ex 
pressions  are  directed.  They  shoot  away,  apparently 
quite  careless  whether  they  hit  anything  or  not. 
It  is  different  with  practical  men;  lawyers  wish  to 
win  verdicts  and  business  men  want  to  make  money, 
and  the  pursuit  of  these  external  objects  is  in  their 
natures.  Besides  geniuses  are  too  egotistical  for 
general  society,  too  keenly  sensitive  to  the  opinions 
of  others. 

Lowell,  however,  greatly  enjoyed  the  position  in 
London  which  his  diplomatic  appointment  gave  him. 
It  was  of  great  use  to  him.  He  was  really  shy  and 
easily  abashed,  as  it  is  the  nature  of  poets  and  artists 
to  be.  He  told  me  one  morning  that  he  had  spoken 


170  A  Virginian  Village 

the  night  before  at  the  Savage  Club,  a  club  of  literary 
men,  adding: — "They  are  critics,  you  know,  and  I 
was  afraid  of  them,  but  I  didn't  let  'em  see  it."  His 
official  position  helped  to  give  him  audacity.  With 
the  help  of  it,  I  have  known  him  now  and  then  to 
do  just  a  little  bit  of  bluffing.  He  would,  in  a  whimsi 
cal  manner,  especially  if  he  was  feeling  pretty  well, 
express  himself  freely  and  confidently  upon  subjects 
of  which  he  could  not  have  known  very  much.  An 
English  acquaintance  of  mine  told  me  that  he  had 
him  one  night  to  dinner  and  that  he  had  at  the  same 
time  the  celebrated  authority  upon  classical  antiqui 
ties,  Sir  Charles  Newton.  There  was  a  difference 
of  opinion  between  the  two  upon  some  point  con 
nected  with  this  subject,  upon  which  Sir  Charles 
Newton  was  one  of  the  greatest  living  experts.  A 
discussion  followed  in  which  Lowell,  who  I  dare  say 
was  feeling  pretty  well  and  in  high  spirits,  went  in 
and  wiped  the  floor  with  Sir  Charles  Newton.  I 
said  to  my  friend  that  I  did  not  suppose  that  Sir 
Charles  Newton  minded,  that  such  an  expert  as  he 
must  of  course  have  regarded  Lowell's  talk  as  that 
of  an  amateur.  "Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  he,  "I  assure 
you  poor  old  Newton  was  dreadfully  disturbed." 
The  other  people  present,  knowing  nothing  about 
the  subject,  probably  gave  the  victory  to  the  smart 
est  talker.  When  Lowell  was  in  good  spirits  and  in 
sympathetic  company,  he  was  an  admirable  talker. 
Gladstone  told  an  American  of  my  acquaintance 
that  he  considered  him  the  best  talker  in  London. 
"With  one  exception?"  inquired  my  friend.  But 
Gladstone  said  he  thought  Lowell  was  better  than  he 
was.  When  Lowell  spoke  upon  subjects  of  which  he 
had  real  knowledge,  he  was  apt  to  speak  modestly 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell          171 

and  with  hesitation.  I  remember  once  asking  him 
something  about  Dante,  of  which  subject  he  knew  a 
great  deal,  and  he  spoke  with  the  caution  with  which 
a  man  usually  speaks  upon  a  subject  of  which  he  is 
master. 

Many  examples  of  his  talk  come  to  my  mind, 
from  which  it  is  not  easy  to  make  a  selection.  These 
occur  to  me  at  random.  I  remember  once  asking  him 
if  he  did  not  think  the  parts  of  Lucretius  about 
falling  particles  queer  material  to  make  poetry  out 
of.  He  began  talking  about  Lucretius  and  made  some 
striking  remarks  about  the  opening  invocation  to 
Love,  which  he  thought  one  of  the  finest  passages 
in  literature.  Again  I  remember  his  saying,  and  I 
thought  his  remark  was  meant  for  me,  that  one 
important  condition  of  success  in  literature  was  the 
wish  to  succeed.  "If  a  man  really  wants  to  do  any 
thing,"  he  said,  "there  may  be  some  chance.  But 
if  you  don't  care,  you  won't  do  anything."  I  recall 
this  also.  One  evening  he  and  I  dined  with  Hoppin 
at  Hoppin's  house.  Mr.  Henry  James  was  with  us. 
I  had  been  reading  Hazlitt's  Liber  Amoris,  the  ac 
count  which  he  wrote  of  his  love  affair  with  the 
grand-daughter  of  his  landlady.  Mrs.  Procter,  who 
was  a  friend  of  Hazlitt's,  had  told  me  that  her  hus 
band,  Barry  Cornwall,  the  poet,  had  thought  that 
Hazlitt  was  so  much  in  love  with  the  girl  that  he  had 
better  marry  her,  and  had  gone  to  see  her  to  do  what 
he  could  to  help  the  matter  along.  But  he  found  that 
she  had  been  so  frightened  by  Hazlitt's  violence 
that  she  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him. 
I  said  that  it  was  distressing  to  see  a  man  of  Haz 
litt's  talents  make  such  an  abject  exposition  of  him 
self.  But  Lowell  thought  differently.  He  said,  and 


172  A  Virginian  Village 

he  spoke  seriously  and  impressively:  "There  is  no 
telling  what  any  one  of  us," — meaning  the  four  men 
at  the  table, — "may  yet  become  through  a  woman." 
He  had  spent  his  life  as  a  teacher  and  had  some  of 
the  characteristics  of  men  who  have  followed  that 
profession.  He  had  not  in  the  least  that  way  of 
talking  down  to  people,  which  teachers  sometimes 
have,  that  sweetly  reasonable,  indulgent  manner, 
"Ah,  do  you  think  so,"  etc.  Artists  and  poets  are 
never  prigs,  and  Lowell  was  not.  But  he  had  to  some 
degree  that  vanity  of  omniscience,  which  is  said  to  be 
a  quality  of  teachers.  He  really  did  know  a  great 
deal,  and  knew  about  a  great  many  things.  He  did 
not  like  to  be  told  anything,  and  he  was  glad  to  have 
a  chance  to  exhibit  his  knowledge.  I  remember  once, 
when  we  were  at  some  evening  party,  that  he  came 
to  me  in  high  dudgeon  and  told  me  that  a  few  minutes 
before  he  had  encountered  a  certain  notorious  old 
bore,  whom  nobody  else  would  have  minded,  and 
that  this  person  had  told  him  that  kickshaws  came 
from  quelquechose.  Lowell  was  very  indignant.  He 
was  charming  when  he  was  in  this  mood.  I  re 
member  also  an  incident  when  his  pride  of  knowledge 
betrayed  him  into  an  unfortunate  remark.  Who 
of  us,  however,  does  not  now  and  then  make  such 
mistakes  and  worse?  I  introduced  the  late  chevalier 
Wikoff  to  him.  There  can  be  few  now  who  remember 
anything  about  Wikoff.  He  was  queer  looking 
enough;  cross-eyed,  clean-shaven,  except  for  the 
little  side  whiskers  dyed  black,  of  the  pattern  of  two 
generations  before,  and  he  wore  an  uncompromising 
black  wig,  with  the  dress  of  a  revived  dandy  of  about 
1820,  a  frock  coat  with  a  high  collar,  a  stock  and  a 
silk  hat  with  a  broad  brim,  very  much  rolled.  He  had 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell          173 

a  very  deep  voice.  In  theory  he  was  an  utter  cynic, 
firmly  persuaded  that  every  man  and  woman  had 
his  or  her  price;  but  he  was  a  good  old  fellow,  with  an 
excellent  heart  and  a  practice  entirely  at  variance 
with  his  philosophy.  He  had  been  made  a  chevalier 
by  some  Italian  potentate,  I  believe,  and  he  liked 
to  be  called  by  that  title.  I  was  very  careful,  how 
ever,  to  introduce  him  as  "Mr.  Wikoff."  It  would 
not  have  pleased  Lowell  if  I  had  introduced  him 
with  the  title.  Lowell  said, — "Ah,  Mr.  Wikoff,  I 
remember  you  in  prison."  Wikoff  had  once  been 
in  the  galleys  in  Italy.  Now  it  was  not  at  all  a  case 
of  Paul  and  Silas  in  chains,  or  of  Galileo  in  the  dun 
geons  of  the  Inquisition.  He  really  had  done  some 
thing,  just  what  I  don't  know.  My  impression  is 
that  he  was  charged  with  having  kidnapped  a  lady. 
Wikoff  was  surprised,  but  he  was  a  very  self-pos 
sessed  person,  and,  seeing  at  once  that  Lowell  did 
not  mean  to  be  unkind,  said,  "Yes,  yes,  so  I  was." 
Lowell  happened  to  know  that  Wikoff  had  been  in 
prison; — indeed  Wikoff  had  told  all  about  it  in  an 
autobiography — and  he  liked  to  show  that  he  knew 
it. 

I  should  not  forget  to  mention  one  of  his  peculiari 
ties.  No  one  could  have  been  much  with  Lowell 
without  hearing  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  Jews,  on 
which  subject  he  was  an  expert.  He  thought  them 
so  important;  he  thought  the  Jew  blood  in  a  man  who 
has  it  dominates  all  other  strains  of  blood  in  the  man. 
He  saw  Jews  everywhere.  He  thought  that  Glad 
stone  was  a  Jew.  I  believe  indeed  that  he  was  of 
Jewish  descent;  his  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Gladstone, 
was  extremely  Jewish  looking.  Lowell's  discovery 
of  a  Jewish  descent  in  people,  however,  was  not  so 


174  A  Virginian  Village 

much  from  an  examination  of  their  physiognomy  as 
from  their  names.  Vernon  Harcourt  was  a  Jew  be 
cause  he  was  from  the  Levison  Gowers,  Lord  Gran- 
ville's  family,  who,  of  course,  were  Jews  because  their 
name  was  Levison.  "There's  where  Harcourt  gets 
his  impudence,"  he  would  say.  One  day  I  was  walk 
ing  in  the  Park  with  him  when  a  man  I  knew  passed. 
I  said, — "That's  the  new  Russian  secretary — David- 
off;  he  succeeds  Bartholomai."  Lowell  said, — 
"Davidoff — Bartholomai — both  Jews."  He  said 
that  he  himself  was  a  Jew  because  he  was  descended 
from  people  named  Russell — Russell  was  his  middle 
name — Russell  being  a  Jewish  name.  He  said  that  I 
was  a  Jew  because  my  name  means  Christmas, 
though  he  admitted  grudgingly — "You  haven't 
got  the  nose  for  it."  The  province  of  Natal  was  so 
named  because  it  was  discovered  on  Christmas  day; 
the  "t"  is  softened  into  "d"  in  Spanish  and  the 
Venetian  dialect  of  Italian.  Lowell  insisted  that 
my  earliest  converted  ancestor  wanted  to  show  how 
good  he  was  and  took  the  most  Christian  name  he 
could  find.  When  I  reminded  him  that  there  was  a 
family  of  my  name  who  had  been  from  father  to  son 
in  the  Gold  Book  of  Venice  since  1240  and  who 
claimed  descent  from  one  of  the  Magi,  there  was 
further  chaff.  I  should  explain  that  Mr.  Lowell  had 
no  dislike  of  Jews  but  a  great  interest  in  them. 

During  Mr.  Lowell's  stay  as  Minister,  our  govern 
ment  bought  the  Franklin  manuscripts,  which  were 
in  London.  The  State  Department  sent  to  the  Le 
gation  the  catalogue  with  the  request  that  either 
Mr.  Hoppin  or  I  should  go  to  the  British  Musum, 
where  the  manuscripts  were  stored,  and  examine 
them,  and  compare  them  with  the  catalogue.  I 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         175 

accordingly  spent  three  or  four  hours  daily  at  the 
Museum  for  nearly  a  month,  examining  the  papers. 
What  I  had  to  do  was  to  see  that  the  government 
got  what  they  had  bought.  It  was  most  interesting 
work,  particularly  the  examination  of  the  papers 
relating  to  Franklin's  residence  in  Paris.  Franklin 
was  in  daily  intercourse  with  the  great  characters 
of  that  great  age  of  France  and  of  the  world.  There 
were  letters  from  them  dated  "Tuesday,"  "Mon 
day,"  "March  12,"  "June  14,"  etc.  I  found  myself 
keeping  his  engagement  book  for  him.  "No,  he 
can't  dine  with  Vergennes  on  Thursday;  he  is  en 
gaged  to  Madame  d'Houdetot  for  that  day."  I 
noticed  some  of  the  papers  were  in  the  form  of  collars, 
cuffs,  sleeves,  etc.  On  asking  why  this  was,  I  was 
told  that  they  were  in  the  possession  of  a  descendant 
of  Franklin,  who  lived  in  London  in  lodgings  in  St. 
James  St.,  and  died  there.  These  lodgings  were  over 
a  tailor  shop.  The  tailor  took  possession  of  the  man 
uscripts  and  threw  them  on  top  of  a  chest;  when  he 
needed  patterns  he  would  have  recourse  to  these 
papers. 

After  I  had  made  my  report  on  the  papers,  a  day 
was  fixed  for  their  formal  transfer  to  the  U.  S.  Gov 
ernment.  Mr.  Lowell  thought  the  occasion  suf 
ficiently  dignified  to  go  to  the  Museum  in  his  own 
carriage,  and  I  went  with  him.  Out  of  his  meagre 
salary  he  could  not  have  very  much,  but  he  could 
have  a  nice  pair  of  bays  and  a  good  brougham,  with 
which  he  made  a  rather  smart  appearance.  I  re 
member  that  drive  very  well.  He  was  in  boyish 
spirits,  talked  a  great  deal  and  was  of  course  mighty 
good  company.  I  remember,  as  I  followed  him  into 
the  room  at  the  Museum  in  which  the  papers  were 


1 76  A  Virginian  Village 

kept,  the  somewhat  grandiose  expression  of  his  back 
and  shoulders.  All  there  was  to  do  was  to  see  two  or 
three  people  and  to  take  over  a  few  wooden  boxes. 
It  was  a  symptom  of  that  incorrigible  youthfulness 
and  simplicity  which  were  part  of  his  character. 

Since  writing  the  above  paragraph,  I  have  been 
shown  the  following  postscript  to  a  letter  from  Lowell 
to  R.  W.  Gilder,  in  which  Lowell  relates  a  supposi 
titious  anecdote  of  himself: — 

"As  Lowell  was  passing  along  the  Edgware  Road 
with  a  friend  two  years  ago,  their  eyes  were  at 
tracted  by  a  sign  with  this  inscription  'Hospital 
for  Incurable  Children.'  Turning  to  his  companion 
with  that  genial  smile  for  which  he  is  remarkable, 
Lowell  said  quietly,  'There's  where  they'll  send  me 
one  of  these  days.'"'  A  bit  of  self-knowledge  which 
is  perhaps  unusual. 

Lowell  was  quite  the  youngest  man  I  ever  knew. 
This  youthfulness  seemed  to  be  in  part  the  result 
of  several  qualities.  One  of  these  was  goodness,  for 
good  men  keep  their  youth  longer  than  men  who  are 
not  good.  He  had  always  led  a  good  life.  He  was  a 
thoroughly  honest  man  and  a  scrupulously  honorable 
one.  He  was,  I  may  say  in  passing,  a  very  kind  man 
and  a  man  of  great  charity.  He  was  one  of  the 
least  censorious  and  the  least  vindictive  of  men.  It 
was  very  rare  to  hear  him  speak  ill  of  anybody. 
This  was  not  in  the  least  from  policy,  for  he  had  very 
little  of  that  quality;  it  was  merely  that  he  was  by 
nature  kind  and  scrupulous.  If  he  did  criticise,  it  was 
done  in  the  gentlest  manner.  The  only  person  of 
whom  I  remember  to  have  heard  him  speak  with 
any  degree  of  asperity  was  the  Rev.  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  and  his  criticism  of  him  was  on  the  score 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         1 77 

of  refinement.  He  said  that  upon  one  occasion  he 
had  been  seated  next  Beecher  at  his  (Beecher's) 
particular  request.  I  can  understand  that  Lowell 
might  not  have  liked  him.  Beecher  was  a  very  power 
ful  person,  quite  overwhelming  indeed,  and  might 
easily  have  offended  the  amour  propre  of  Lowell. 

Not  only  did  he  not  speak  ill  of  people,  but  he 
would  be  silent  and  would  look  rather  uncomfortable, 
when  unkind  things  were  said  about  people  in  his 
presence.  These  are  qualities  you  would  not  expect 
to  find  in  a  satirical  poet.  But  then  satire  was  not 
his  gift.  He  had  not  the  unkindness  you  would  ex 
pect  to  find  in  a  satirical  writer;  nor  had  he  the  crit 
ical  acumen  which  goes  with  that  endowment.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  sharp.  "The  Biglow  Papers"  are 
infinitely  spirited  and  joyful  productions,  which  are 
part  of  the  permanent  literature  of  the  country 
and  intimately  associated  with  a  great  period  of  our 
history,  but  you  would  hardly  call  them  satire, 
certainly  not  satire  of  the  order  of  Juvenal  and  Swift. 
They  had  not  enough  knowledge  for  that.  I  don't 
know  very  well  who  "Gov.  C.,"  "John  P.  Robinson  " 
and  the  other  people  attacked  in  those  verses  with 
such  vigor  and  vivacity  may  have  been,  but  I  sus 
pect  they  were  nearer  right  than  the  young  poets 
and  orators  who,  with  hearts  stronger  than  their 
heads,  and  not  knowing  what  they  were  about,  were 
driving  the  country  on  to  war.  But  that  remark 
applies  as  well  to  the  whole  Republican  Party,  of 
which  these  poems  were  forerunners  and  in  a  sense 
contributing  causes;  none  of  us  knew  what  we  were 
about. 

But  not  only  was  Lowell  charitable  in  speech  and 
opinion;  he  was  a  man  of  much  practical  kindness  as 


1 78  A  Virginian  Village 

well,  and  was  very  ready  to  do  anybody  a  good  turn. 
There  is  one  kind  of  benevolence,  which  an  American 
diplomat  abroad  has  many  opportunities  of  exer 
cising.  He  is  often  called  upon  to  help  his  country 
men  who  need  financial  assistance,  and  Lowell  did 
more  of  this  than  his  limited  means  justified. 

One  cause  of  his  youthfulness  was  no  doubt  phys 
ical.  He  had  rugged  health  and  was  a  man  of  first 
rate  physique.  He  had  that  build  which  is  said  to 
be  one  of  the  best  for  strength  and  endurance,  deep 
chest  and  broad  shoulders,  set  on  short,  stout  legs. 
I  think  you  see  physical  strength  in  his  poetry,  in 
the  introduction  to  "  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,"  for 
instance.  In  a  happy  and  hopeful  period  of  time, 
take  a  high-minded  young  poet  in  the  early  enthusi 
asm  of  natural  virtue  and  with  something  of  the  pride 
of  that  quality  and  in  first  rate  physical  condition, 
turn  him  loose  among  the  lilacs,  buttercups  and  bobo 
links  of  the  sudden,  transient  and  brilliant  Spring 
of  Massachusetts  and  let  him  sing,  and  you  may  have 
poetry  something  like  this.  You  see  the  same  quality 
in  that  most  vital  poem  "The  Courtin',"  a  pro 
duction  which  has  the  true  madness  and  gladness  of 
poetry  and  humor.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  like  him  of 
anything  he  ever  wrote.  As  I  read  I  can  see  the 
young  poet  before  me,  the  sturdy  figure  and  mobile 
features  alive  and  vibrant  with  poetic  rage  and 
laughter. 

And  when  he  made  O'e  Hundred  ring, 
She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

These  two  poems  bid  fair  to  live  as  long  as  our 
language  does.  First  rate  health  may  also  in  part 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell          179 

explain  the  apparent  affectation  to  be  found  in 
some  of  his  prose  things.  He  is  feeling  his  oats. 
He  prances  about  all  ribbons  and  rosettes  like  a 
stock  horse  at  a  county  fair.  During  the  period  of  my 
service  under  him  he  was,  although  sixty  to  sixty-five 
years  of  age,  a  man  in  perfect  health.  He  would  do 
things  you  would  scarcely  expect  of  a  man  of  that  age. 
He  did  not  seem  to  mind  cold,  for  instance.  Indeed  I 
have  heard  that,  when  he  wanted  a  bath,  he  has  been 
known  to  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice  of  the  Charles  River 
and  jump  in.  I  recall  this  incident.  We  had  been  at 
one  of  the  balls  at  Buckingham  Palace.  The  dress 
in  which  we  had  to  attend  these  parties  was  an  or 
dinary  dress  coat  and  waistcoat  with  knee  breeches 
and  silk  stockings.  On  coming  away  from  one  of 
these  balls  at  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
the  carriage  was  not  to  be  found  and  we  walked  home, 
a  distance  of  perhaps  a  mile,  having  nothing  on  from 
the  knee  downward  but  silk  stockings  and  very  thin 
pumps.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  standing  up  to  my  knees 
in  cold  water.  Lowell,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  seem 
to  feel  the  cold  in  the  least  but  stepped  along  in  the 
gayest  of  spirits.  But  within  eight  years  from  that 
time  he  was  gone. 

The  last  years  of  Lowell's  life,  those  which  he 
spent  in  this  country  after  leaving  London,  seemed 
to  be  sadder  than  they  should  have  been.  In  the 
lives  of  some  men  there  is,  towards  the  end,  a  season 
like  Indian  Summer;  at  any  rate  so  it  is  said  in  novels 
and  romances.  I  have  indeed  known  men  of  whom 
that  was  true.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  come  to 
Lowell.  I  don't  see  why  he  should  not  have  had  it. 
Until  attacked  by  his  last  illness,  he  had  been  in 
fairly  good  health.  He  was  comfortably  off,  I  sup- 


180  A  Virginian  Village 

pose.  He  had  some  private  fortune,  and  he  had 
other  sources  of  income.  He  told  me  that  his  royal 
ties  brought  him  about  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
which  was  a  good  deal  to  get  from  half  a  dozen  vol 
umes  of  poems  and  miscellaneous  essays.  He  said 
that  he  could  go  back  to  his  professorship  whenever 
he  wished,  and  do  as  much  work,  or  as  little,  as  he 
liked.  His  position  before  the  country,  moreover, 
was  a  most  enviable  one.  From  the  time  of  his  re 
turn  from  London  till  his  death  he  was,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Mr.  Cleveland,  perhaps  the 
most  distinguished  man  of  the  country.  But  in  spite 
of  these  advantages  his  last  years  seemed  desolate. 
It  is  our  misfortune  here  that  we  have  no  great 
capital,  where  every  American  may  feel  at  home,  as 
an  Englishman  does  in  London,  or  a  Frenchman,  or 
indeed  any  human  being  does,  in  Paris.  Of  course 
an  American,  who  lives  in  his  own  country,  must  live 
somewhere,  and  any  place  here  is  dull  after  London 
or  Paris.  Lowell  returned  to  London  once  or  twice 
after  his  connection  with  the  Legation  had  ceased, 
but  he  was  not  happy  there.  A  gentleman  with 
whom  he  stayed  after  his  return  told  me  that  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  loss  of  his  old  position.  When  I 
said  that  I  should  have  thought  that  Lowell  without 
an  official  position  would  have  been  better  placed 
there  than  anybody  else  with  one,  my  friend  said: — 
"So  should  I,  but  that  was  not  his  feeling."  Mr. 
Phelps,  who  succeeded  him,  intimated  the  same 
thing,  when  I  spoke  to  him  about  Lowell,  adding, — 
"I  never  make  the  mistake  of  going  back."  I  don't 
quite  see  why  it  should  be  a  mistake  to  go  back.  It 
is  a  matter  of  the  man's  own  feeling.  He  may  still 
take  a  walk  in  Piccadilly  and  Bond  Street,  may 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         181 

visit  the  tailors  and  haberdashers,  and  shop  at  Har- 
rod's  and  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores.  How  nice 
it  smells  in  the  Groceries  Department  at  the  Army 
and  Navy!  He  may  still  have  a  ride  on  the  top  of 
an  omnibus,  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  London  diver 
sions,  and  may  look  down  on  the  crowds  in  those  old 
streets,  as  if  from  the  deck  of  a  ship.  He  may  look 
up  his  old  friends,  and,  if  he  will  leave  a  few  cards, 
will  no  doubt  have  plenty  to  do.  But  that  would 
not  have  been  enough  for  Lowell.  Is  it  not  true 
that  people,  whose  lives  have  very  nearly  always 
been  happy  and  prosperous,  do  not  seem  to  take  the 
disappointments  which  are  sure  to  come  with  ad 
vancing  years  with  the  courage  and  endurance 
which  men  have  who  have  been  early  inured  to  a 
certain  amount  of  adverse  fortune?  Lowell  had  led  a 
singularly  happy  life  and  he  had  been  fairly  prosper 
ous  all  his  days.  I  had  another  literary  chief  in  Lon 
don,  an  eminent  and  gifted  man,  Mr.  John  Lothrop 
Motley.  Mr.  Motley  was  a  man  who  had  always  lived 
a  prosperous  life  until  his  difference  with  his  govern 
ment  in  1870,  when  the  government  asked  for  his 
resignation.  With  his  literary  fame,  the  high  re 
gard  in  which  he  was  held  at  home,  and  the  place 
which  his  personal  attractions  had  won  for  him  in 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  societies  in  Europe, 
no  man  would  have  been  in  better  position  than  he 
to  reply  "Here  it  is,"  and,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul 
ders,  to  retire,  and  to  say  and  think  no  more  about 
it,  and  that  is  what  almost  any  man  who  had  had 
much  experience  of  the  ups  and  downs  and  the  give 
and  take  of  ordinary  practical  life  would  have  done. 
But  it  was  his  misfortne  that  he  did  not  do  that. 
I  have  said  that  Lowell  was  the  youngest  man  I 


1 82  A  Virginian  Village 

ever  knew.  It  is  also  true  that  I  never  knew  any 
other  man  who  had  a  greater  dread  of  getting  old 
than  he.  He  would  sometimes  say  to  me — I  was 
twenty-five  years  the  younger — "Oh,  you'll  begin 
to  feel  it  pretty  soon."  He  wrote  poems  on  the  sub 
ject.  There  was  a  wonderful  old  lady  in  London 
whom  we  knew  very  well,  Mrs.  Procter.  This  inci 
dent  will  give  you  a  notion  of  what  Mrs.  Procter  was 
like.  I  met  her  in  St.  James's  Park  one  morning 
when  she  was  about  ninety,  the  short  sturdy  figure 
toddling  up  a  rather  stiff  hill  in  the  park  and  going 
at  a  good  pace.  I  asked  her  where  she  was  going. 
She  said, — "I'm  going  to  London."  I  said, — 
"Aren't  you  in  London?" — St.  James's  Park  being 
about  the  centre  of  London.  "No,"  she  said,  "I 
don't  call  this  London.  I  call  Bond  Street  London." 
Lowell  wrote  her  a  poem  beginning — "I  know  a  girl; 
they  say  she's  eighty."  The  poet  says  that  when  he 
is  in  search  of  Youth  he  is  acquainted  with  a  certain 
doctor  "who  keeps  the  drug"  "doctor,"  of  course 
rhyming  with  "Procter."  The  last  time  I  saw  Mr. 
Lowell  he  gave  me  a  curious  and  somewhat  pathetic 
indication  of  his  interest  in  this  subject.  I  hap 
pened  to  be  for  a  day  in  Boston  at  some  time  during 
the  closing  years  of  his  life,  and  went  out  to  see  him 
in  the  teeth  of  a  terrible  March  blizzard.  I  thought 
he  seemed  rather  lonely.  He  told  me  that  Hoppin 
had  been  to  see  him  not  long  before.  He  said  that 
he  looked  well  and  seemed  to  be  in  good  health,  but 
he  noticed  that  when  he  went  away  he  was  a  little 
awkward  in  getting  down  the  front  steps.  When  I 
left,  he  came  to  the  door  with  me  and  stood  there, 
evidently  waiting  to  see  how  I  negotiated  the  front 
steps.  At  the  age  I  was  then  there  was  no  reason 


London  Recollections  of  Lowell         183 

why  there  should  be  anything  the  matter  with  my 
action.  But  the  incident  was  characteristic  of 
Lowell,  and  of  his  intense  interest  in  the  subject  of 
youth  and  age. 

One  of  my  London  chiefs,  Mr.  John  Welsh,  Mr. 
Lowell's  immediate  predecessor,  a  man  to  whom  I 
was  greatly  attached,  once  said  to  me:  "You  at  your 
age  think  it  a  good  thing  to  be  a  minister  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort.  There  is  not  much  in  that.  No 
time  in  your  life  will  probably  be  so  pleasant  as 
where  you  are  now."  "You  think  not?"  I  asked. 
"Probably  not,"  he  replied.  I  have  had  many 
pleasant  and  interesting  hours  since.  But  upon  the 
whole,  perhaps,  this  forecast  of  my  old  friend  has 
proved  true.  I  had  a  pleasant  time  with  him,  and 
it  was  pleasant  under  his  successor.  Lately  in  Lon 
don  on  a  hot  Sunday  afternoon  in  September,  Lon 
don  very  empty  and  the  air  having  that  deadness 
which  characterizes  London  hot  weather,  I  turned 
southward  from  Albert  Gate  and  found  myself  in  a 
long  parallelogram,  with  a  narrow  grass  plot  in  the 
middle,  surrounded  by  an  iron  fence.  I  did  not 
know  it  at  first.  "What  is  this ? "  I  thought.  " Why, 
of  course  it  is  Lowndes  Square,  and  over  there  is 
Lowell's  house."  The  house  had  the  silence  which 
belongs  to  places  we  have  known  well  in  the  past 
but  have  ceased  to  know.  The  bright  and  manly 
figure  of  the  former  occupant  stood  before  me  in  a 
peculiarly  winning  and  kindly  light — a  man  to  be 
liked,  admired,  respected  and  regretted. 


A  VIRGINIAN  JOURNEY 

I  BEGAN  a  recent  journey  in  Virginia  by  a  visit 
to  some  old  friends  in  Fauquier  County — an 
Englishman  married  to  a  Virginian  wife.  Their 
life  presented  a  delightful  contrast  to  that  I  had  been 
leading  in  New  York.  It  is  a  life  passed  with  horses, 
dogs,  and  cattle,  and  in  which  men  have  almost  as 
much  leisure  and  as  much  time  on  their  hands  as 
the  animals  have.  I  found  my  friend's  house  an 
excellent  place  in  which  to  get  over  the  grippe.  We 
had  the  variable  weather  of  the  season,  which  was  the 
last  of  March.  At  times  on  very  sunshiny  days  it 
was  warm  enough  to  have  the  doors  and  windows 
open,  which,  after  the  wintry  scene  I  had  just  left 
in  New  York,  was  a  novelty.  The  next  day  would 
bring  a  chill  wind,  which  would  close  the  windows. 
But  the  dogs  would  all  gather  in  the  smoking-room— 
a  place  littered  up  with  guns,  books,  tobacco-pipes, 
and  many  odds  and  ends  having  to  do  with  sport 
and  animals;  and,  with  a  great  wood  fire  and  the 
feet  on  the  fender,  and  plenty  of  books,  chiefly  about 
horses — in  which  animals'  disease  is  nearly  as  attrac 
tive  as  health  is  in  human  beings — one  rather  pre 
ferred  the  bad  weather. 

It  was  a  kind  of  life  in  which  the  domestic  affections 
flourish  exceedingly.  There  were  some  beautiful 
children.  One  of  these,  a  lame  child,  had  a  delightful 
voice,  the  joyous  accents  of  which,  when  he  was  play 
ing  in  the  garden,  I  could  hear  through  the  open 
windows  of  my  bedroom.  Of  course,  a  lame  child 


A  Virginian  Journey  185 

is  sure  to  receive  a  great  deal  of  affection,  and  being 
loved  was  quite  a  matter  of  course  to  this  one.  One 
morning  when  he  was  sitting  on  a  stone  in  the  garden, 
occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  his  father  and 
I  were  walking  back  and  forth  past  him,  the  father 
said,  as  he  passed — "I  detest  you."  The  child  in 
terrupted  the  thread  of  his  reflections  sufficiently 
to  remark  carelessly: — "On  the  contrary,  you  adore 
me."  The  youngest  was  about  two  years  old.  The 
first  morning  of  my  stay  in  the  house,  I  came  down 
late  to  breakfast,  and  my  friends  asked  me  how  I  had 
slept.  This  piece  of  good  manners  impressed  the 
child,  who  was  sitting  in  a  high  chair  by  his  mother's 
side,  and  he  put  it  away  in  his  mind  for  future  use. 
Accordingly  the  next  morning  when  I  again  appeared 
late  at  breakfast,  before  anyone  else  had  a  chance 
to  say  anything,  he  called  out  to  me  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table — "Dal,  how  you  sleep?" 

In  Fauquier  the  horse,  rather  than  man,  is  the 
centre  of  society.  A  good  deal  of  the  raising  of  horses 
here  is  done  by  Englishmen.  They  are  good  horse 
men,  but  not  always  good  men  of  business.  At  one 
place,  at  which  there  were  several  very  fine  imported 
stallions,  three  or  four  of  these  young  men  lived. 
I  was  there  once  and  found  the  lazy  fellows  not  yet 
out  of  bed;  I  looked  through  the  window  and  saw  a 
billiard  table.  There  was  to  be  a  steeplechase  in  the 
neighborhood  in  a  few  days,  which  was  expected 
with  great  interest  in  the  house  in  which  I  was  stay 
ing,  because  a  horse  belonging  to  the  house  (a  very 
handsome  and  promising  animal)  was  to  run  in  it. 
One  of  our  occupations  was  to  go  and  watch  the 
practice  for  the  steeplechase — a  rather  chilly  amuse 
ment,  I  thought,  at  first.  The  skies  were  usually 


1 86  A  Virginian  Village 

cloudy,  although  at  times  bright  with  a  cold  sun; 
it  was  in  that  dull  March  weather  when  the  sod  has 
scarcely  felt  the  influence  of  the  spring.  The  con 
trast  of  this  country  scene  was  very  sharp  with  the 
urban,  sedentary  life  I  had  just  left, — that  of  a  com 
mercial  community  largely  suffering  from  the  in 
fluenza.  These  four-year-old  thoroughbreds  had  not 
the  grippe-,  youth  was  the  proper  possession  of  their 
riders,  whose  cheeks  the  strong  air  had  painted  with 
a  ruddy  color.  It  was  not  possible  long  to  resist  the 
contagion  of  the  spectacle.  Soon  the  hot  blood  which 
coursed  in  the  veins  of  horses  and  riders  began  to 
stir  in  your  own.  It  was  such  an  abrupt  meeting 
with  that  primal,  natural  life  of  which  we  have  all 
been  cheated.  My  mind  went  backward  to  those 
legendary  scenes  with  which  the  imagination  of  man 
kind  has  filled  other  climes  and  earlier  and  happier 
ages.  This  was  not  the  dull  landscape  of  the  Potomac 
and  the  Rappahannock;  these  young  men  who  leaped 
the  eager  steeds  over  the  hurdles  were  not  the  English 
youths  I  had  seen  about  the  post-office  and  the 
village  stores;  they  were  rather  Centaurs,  sons  of 
Chiron,  playing  in  the  vales  of  Thessaly. 

My  friend's  horse,  Ascot,  was  said  to  be  one  of  the 
best-looking  in  that  part  of  the  country;  he  was  four 
years  old,  a  fraction  over  sixteen  hands  high,  and 
near  perfection  in  form.  The  day  came,  and  Ascot 
looked  very  splendid;  the  groom  had  made  his  bay 
coat  fairly  refulgent.  Before  the  horses  started  his 
master  was  offered  $800  for  him,  but  he  thought  he 
could  get  £1,000  if  he  won  the  race,  which  it  seemed 
likely  he  would  do.  As  Ascot,  with  his  grand  stride, 
galloped  over  the  course,  he  glittered  like  a  horse 
in  armor.  He  was  coming  in  well  at  the  head  of 


A  Virginian  Journey  187 

the  race,  when  he  fell  at  the  last  stone  fence.  From 
the  stand  we  could  see  that  he  did  not  rise,  and 
feared  the  worst.  Once  indeed  he  rose  on  his  fore 
legs,  his  haunches  still  on  the  ground,  as  a  dog  sits; 
an  attitude  regarded  as  a  very  bad  indication. 
Everybody  hurried  to  the  spot  across  the  fields. 
The  horse  was  lying  upon  the  grass,  his  burnished 
coat  fairly  glistening  in  the  sun,  his  legs  trembling, 
but  his  eye  showing  less  suffering  than  I  should  have 
expected,  the  men  and  ladies  whispering  about  him 
as  if  about  a  human  death-bed.  A  veterinary  said 
his  back  was  broken.  Someone  said,  "He  is  eating 
grass;  isn't  that  a  good  sign?"  A  boy  of  eleven  stand 
ing  by  said,  "That  is  nothing;  I  have  seen  them  eat 
grass  when  they  were  dying."  Ascot's  master  was 
walking  about,  gloomily  and  sadly,  holding  a  re 
volver.  But  the  ladies  pleaded  that  there  was  a 
chance  for  Ascot  and  that  he  should  have  it. 

Accordingly  he  was  drawn  home  upon  a  wagon 
and  "hung,"  as  it  is  called,  i.  e.,  stood  upon  his  feet 
and  held  up  by  belts  passed  under  him  and  attached 
to  the  roof  of  his  stable.  Here  he  stood  for  a  week, 
tended  day  and  night,  apparently  in  no  great  suffer 
ing,  indeed  usually  stupid  with  the  narcotics  which 
were  poured  into  him.  He  was  the  one  theme  of 
thought  and  conversation.  The  household,  parents 
and  children,  white  and  colored,  human  and  canine, 
were  the  most  of  the  time  about  him.  The  little 
mulatto  maid,  who  brought  me  my  bath  in  the  morn 
ing,  said:  "Ascot  is  better!"  or  "Ascot  is  not  so  well 
this  morning!"  But,  of  course,  he  did  not  get  well. 

Virginia  has  scarcely  the  reputation  of  Kentucky 
for  raising  horses,  but  many  good  horses  of  several 
kinds  are  raised  in  the  State.  In  Fauquier  and  Lou- 


1 88  A  Virginian  Village 

don  Counties  jumpers  and  hunters  are  bred;  draught 
horses  are  raised  in  the  Valley;  in  the  counties  in  the 
southwest,  such  as  Wythe,  Pulaski,  &c.,  they  breed 
saddle-horses,  by  which  is  usually  meant  gaited 
horses,  that  is,  pacers  and  rackers;  trotters  are 
raised  all  over  the  State.  Many  of  the  Loudon  and 
Fauquier  horses  are  bred  to  sell  to  men  who  belong 
to  the  hunting  clubs  of  the  large  Eastern  cities.  It 
is  only  in  this  part  of  the  State  that  hunters  and 
jumpers  are  to  be  found.  In  other  parts  of  the 
State,  certainly  in  my  own  native  country,  ability 
to  jump  is  considered  a  vice,  for  the  reason  that 
higher  fences  are  required  to  keep  jumping  horses 
in.  Pacers,  rackers,  and  single-footers  are  seen 
everywhere  throughout  Virginia.  Pacing  is  cer 
tainly  not  a  pretty  gait,  but  it  by  no  means  deserves 
the  contempt  in  which  it  is  held  by  the  English  and 
by  Americans  whose  fancy  is  based  upon  English 
taste.  Of  course,  trotting  is  a  better  gait  for  riding 
in  city  parks,  or  for  pleasure  riding  of  any  kind,  be 
cause  it  is  better-looking  and  gives  the  rider  more 
exercise.  But  in  Virginia  a  saddle-horse  is  very 
necessary  for  getting  about.  Often  the  only  way, 
at  any  rate  the  best  way,  of  going  between  distant 
points  is  on  horseback.  The  good  old  notion  of  the 
horse  as  the  natural  means  of  locomotion  still  pre 
vails  there,  and  the  traveller  is  still  set  forward  upon 
his  journey  by  "  evening  red  and  morning  grey." 
For  all  day  rides  these  gaited  horses  are  very  com 
fortable.  You  must  often  carry  saddle-bags,  and  it 
is  difficult  to  trot  with  saddle-bags.  If  you  are 
riding  all  day  under  a  Virginia  midsummer  sun,  you 
will  find  it  comfortable  to  carry  an  umbrella,  and  you 
can  scarcely  trot  with  an  umbrella.  A  most  useful 


A  Virginian  Journey  189 

gait  for  a  long  distance  riding  is  a  dog-trot,  fox-trot, 
or  running  walk.  But  this,  again,  is  not  a  beautiful 
movement.  These  gaited  horses,  by  the  way,  even 
in  walking  have  a  quick  method  of  moving  their 
hind  legs  which  is  ugly.  A  peculiarity  of  Virginia 
horses  also  seemed  to  me  to  be  drooping  hind 
quarters.  The  head,  neck,  and  withers,  on  the  con 
trary,  are  often  exceedingly  good. 

In  one  very  beautiful  part  of  Virginia  to  which  I 
went  from  Fauquier,  I  had  the  use  of  an  animal 
that  had  these  characteristics.  He  belonged  to  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Confederate  cavalry 
leaders — the  only  commander,  I  have  been  told, 
who  ever  captured  a  gunboat  with  cavalry.  Since 
the  war  the  general  had  brought  new  lustre  to  a  fa 
mous  name  by  a  civil  career  almost  as  distinguished 
as  that  he  achieved  in  arms.  He  is  a  lover  of  horses, 
having  been  first  in  his  class  at  West  Point  in  horse 
manship,  has  an  extensive  knowledge  of  them,  and 
great  skill  in  handling  them.  But  he  has  now  little 
leisure  for  horses,  being  much  engaged  in  the  im 
portant  affairs  related  to  the  movement  being  made 
for  the  development  of  the  South.  He  therefore 
kindly  allowed  me  the  use  of  this  animal  while  I  was 
in  his  neighborhood.  This  horse,  which  was  five 
years  old  and  had  a  particularly  fine  neck,  long  and 
well  arched,  was  eighteen  hands  high.  I  never, 
when  mounted,  had  been  at  such  a  distance  from  the 
ground  before.  He  was  scarcely  bridle-wise,  but 
had  an  excellent  disposition,  as  big  things  are  apt 
to  have.  One  discovery  I  thought  I  made  with  him, 
namely,  that  these  very  big  horses  cannot  shy 
badly. 
This  incident  I  thought  showed  great  intelligence 


190  A  Virginian  Village 

on  his  part.  One  morning  I  was  going  along  the 
road  when  I  saw  approaching  me  a  boy  perhaps  14 
years  old,  carrying  an  empty  flour  barrel,  who,  with 
that  ingenuity  in  making  a  nuisance  of  himself  which 
belongs  to  a  boy  of  that  age,  had  let  down  the  flour 
barrel  over  his  head  till  it  rested  on  his  shoulders,  so 
that  even  to  my  eyes  he  looked  like  a  monster  with 
the  body  of  a  boy  and  the  head  of  a  flour  barrel. 
The  horse  had,  of  course,  never  seen  anything  like 
that  before  and,  though  a  very  sensible  animal,  did 
not  likevit,  and  he  lifted  his  giraffe-like  neck  and 
stared  at  it,  prancing  from  one  side  of  the  road  to 
the  other,  j  As  the  boy  came  nearer,  he  turned  and 
ran  back' about  fifty  yards.  I  made  no  attempt  to 
control  him,  being  curious  to  see  what  he  would  do. 
He  turned  to  look  at  the  boy,  apparently  more  curious 
than  afraid,  and,  liking  the  spectacle  no  better  than 
before,  turned  again  and  fled.  This  he  repeated 
several  times,  I  giving  him  a  loose  rein.  The  boy, 
who  had  not  seen  or  heard  us,  was  still  advancing.  I 
presently  called  to  him  and  asked  him  to  set  down 
the  barrel  beside  the  road,  which  he  did,  and  the 
horse  went  by,  giving  it  a  wide  berth.  A  few  miles 
further  on  I  came  to  a  flour  mill,  in  front  of  which 
there  were  a  number  of  flour  barrels.  He  had  often 
passed  these  barrels  before  and  had  never  taken  any 
notice  of  them.  But  this  time  he  stopped  short  and 
looked  at  them  intently.  I  laid  the  rein  on  his  neck, 
when  he  went  up  to  one  of  them  and  studied  it  care 
fully,  going  all  over  it  with  his  nose.  Then  with  a 
toss  of  his  head  he  went  on,  as  if  to  say — "That 
which  I  took  for  the  head  of  a  boy  was  only  a  flour 
barrel." 

It  was  a  serious  matter  to  get  off  to  open  a  gate  on 


A  Virginian  Journey  191 

account  of  the  difficulty  of  mounting.  Not  only 
had  you  to  climb  the  eighteen  hands,  but  you  had 
to  get  your  legs  over  the  high  cantle  of  a  military 
saddle.  Fortunately  there  was  often  at  hand  a 
little  darkey,  who  would  open  the  gate  for  me. 
There  was  one  child  about  ten  years  old,  very  black 
and  nearly  naked,  who  once  did  me  this  service.  I 
felt  in  my  pocket  for  the  usual  nickel,  with  which 
coin  a  young  darkey  must  have  great  familiarity. 
Not  finding  one,  I  gave  him  a  dime.  It  was  in  the 
days  of  the  real  estate  boom  in  the  South,  and  the 
child  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  purchase  and 
sale  of  land.  My  munificence  had  at  first  the  effect 
of  depriving  him  of  speech,  but  when  I  had  ridden 
about  fifty  feet  from  him,  he  found  his  voice  and 
called  after  me — "Say,  boss,  is  yuh  goin'  tuh  buy 
out  dis  heah  groun'?"  He  made  sure  I  was  a  great 
real  estate  operator.  When  there  was  no  little 
darkey  about,  my  plight  was  serious.  The  horse 
would  not  be  led  up  to  a  stone  or  a  fence.  Once, 
when  I  was  about  eight  miles  from  home  and  was 
trying  to  get  him  up  to  a  fence,  he  became  very  much 
excited  and  I  feared  he  would  break  away  from  me, 
which  would  have  been  unpleasant,  as  there  was  a 
stream  about  two  feet  deep  between  me  and  my 
destination,  which  I  was  relying  upon  his  long  legs 
to  get  me  across.  There  was  one  way,  however,  by 
which  it  was  possible  to  mount  from  the  ground. 
The  stirrup  leathers  were  very  long.  You  could 
let  out  the  left  stirrup  till  it  was  within  two  feet  of 
the  ground,  and  then  let  out  the  right  stirrup  and 
throw  it  across  the  saddle;  a  kind  of  ladder  was  thus 
made  on  the  left  side,  by  means  of  which  it  was  pos 
sible  to  walk  on  his  back. 


192  A  Virginian  Village 

I  breakfasted  one  morning  with  the  general  and  his 
family.  He  told  me  this  story  which  he  said  he  had  re 
lated  to  President  Cleveland,  whom  it  amused.  A 
lawyer  and  politician  of  his  neighborhood  had  as  a 
client  a  farmer  who  would  come  to  consult  him  not 
only  about  matters  of  law  but  about  other  matters  as 
well.  He  came  one  day  and  said — "What  does  this 
new  word 'mugwump'  I  see  in  the  papers  mean?"  "A 
mugwump,"  explained  the  politician,  "is  a  Repub 
lican  who  votes  the  Democratic  ticket — a  man  who 
puts  his  ideas  of  right  above  party  affiliations."  "A 
pretty  good  sort  of  man,  isn't  he?"  said  the  farmer. 
"Oh,  a  very  superior  man,"  was  the  reply.  "Now," 
said  the  farmer,  "what  would  you  call  a  Democrat 
who  voted  the  Republican  ticket?"  The  politician, 
much  astonished  by  this  suggestion,  said  with  great 
animation, — "Why,  sir,  I  should  call  him  a  damned 
fool!" 

The  general  was  a  man  of  much  wit  and  liveliness 
of  mind.  I  have  heard  this  about  him.  Someone 
asked  him  why  you  so  seldom  see  a  dead  cavalry 
man.  The  general,  who  was  one  of  the  most  dis 
tinguished  Confederate  cavalry  leaders,  said — "Well, 
you  see  it's  like  this.  We  wait  till  we  get  within 
about  three  hundred  yards  of  the  enemy.  Then  we 
raise  a  great  shout,  and,  if  they  don't  run,  we  do." 
At  the  same  time  I  doubt  if  it  would  have  been  wise 
to  take  the  general  at  his  word. 

I  may  be  permitted  to  say  that  I  was  much  im 
pressed  with  one  person  at  the  table — the  general's 
mother.  Virginians  are  much  chaffed  by  the  world- 
at-large  regarding  the  claims  of  their  old  families  to 
the  possession  of  superior  manners;  but  my  observa 
tion  is  that  the  good  families  of  tidewater  Virginia 


A  Virginian  Journey  193 

are  quite  justified  in  thinking  highly  of  themselves 
on  that  score.  This  old  lady  was  nearly  blind  and 
scarcely  spoke  a  word,  and  she  was  dressed  in  the 
plainest  way.  But  there  seemed  to  me  to  be  some 
thing  distinctly  grande  dame  about  her. 

One  is  continually  brought  close  to  nature  and 
wild  animal  life  in  travelling  in  this  country.  In 
one  mountain  town  to  which  my  travels  on  the  gen 
eral's  big  colt  led  me  I  met  a  dark,  tall,  and  very 
powerful-looking  man,  who  was  decidedly  drunk; 
there  was  some  kind  of  festival  in  the  village.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  made  me  a  low  bow,  and  on  top 
of  his  head,  nestling  in  a  great  shock  of  black  hair, 
was  a  baby  opossum,  which  he  said  he  had  found 
and  was  taking  home  as  a  present  to  his  little  girls. 
The  marsupials  are,  I  believe,  a  mammalian  order 
much  more  ancient  than  other  existing  mammals. 
I  have  been  told  that  the  female  marsupial  has  in  the 
breast  a  compressor  muscle  by  means  of  which  milk  is 
ejected  into  the  mouth  of  the  young.  The  little 
marsupial  may  not  know  enough  "to  come  in  when 
it  rains,"  but  he  does  know  enough  to  open  its  mouth. 
But  I  have  never  seen  a  creature  more  wide-awake 
or  up  to  the  times  than  this  one.  He  appeared  to 
have  grown  quite  used  to  his  queer  habitation,  and 
to  be  keenly  on  the  alert  to  see  what  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  like. 

At  a  railway  station  in  Rockbridge  County  I 
stopped  to  get  one  of  those  luncheons  of  bread  and 
chicken  which  the  negroes  offer  on  the  arrival  of  the 
train,  and  which  are  the  best  food  to  be  found  in 
that  country.  The  dogs  of  the  town,  all  of  which 
come  down  to  the  depot  to  see  the  train  come  in, 
surrounded  me  and  begged  in  an  embarrassing  man- 


194  A  Virginian  Village 

ner.  But  I  offered  the  remains  of  my  lunch  to  a 
little  bear  cub  tied  behind  the  hotel.  He  had  been 
caught  a  few  weeks  before  by  some  men  who  were 
coming  down  the  mountain  on  a  hand-car.  They 
saw  him  scurrying  away  among  the  bushes  and  ran 
after  him  and  caught  him.  He  did  not  object  to  be 
captured  and  appeared  rather  willing  to  see  the 
world.  When  I  offered  him  my  luncheon,  he  raised 
himself  on  his  hind-legs,  and  walked  about  it  deli 
cately,  and  smelt  of  it,  and  fingered  it  in  that  pecu 
liarly  chic  way  which  it  is  so  impossible  for  a  human 
touch  to  imitate,  and  declined  with  thanks.  I  asked 
the  bar-tender  what  he  would  take,  and  he  said  that 
"if  I  had  any  lemon  drops,  he  would  like  them." 
But  I  had  no  lemon  drops. 

One  evening  I  was  going  along  a  road  which  over 
looked  one  of  the  more  considerable  villages  in  this 
part  of  Virginia,  when  a  boy  passed  me.  As  appears 
to  be  the  habit  of  these  rustics,  he  turned  after  he 
had  gone  a  few  feet  and  spoke  to  me,  saying,  "Mis 
ter,  don't  you  want  to  see  a  monkey  that  nurses  a 
kitten?"  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  monkey 
suckles  the  kitten?"  "No,  it  just  holds  it  in  this  way" 
(imitating  the  action  with  his  arms).  "  Is  the  mon 
key  fond  of  the  kitten?"  "Not  very;  it  will  nurse 
anything  else  the  same  way — a  rabbit  or  a  guinea- 
pig."  The  boy  pointed  me  out  the  house  where  he 
lived,  which  was  not  far  off,  and  I  promised  to  come 
in  an  hour's  time.  It  was,  although  not  yet  sun 
down,  late  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  hour,  when  the 
new  moon  renovates  with  the  fresh  arc  of  her  slender 
circlet  the  decline  of  the  propitious  day.  Odd  that 
such  a  wakeful  novelty  should  be  introduced  into 
the  heavens  at  the  time  when  nature  is  preparing 


A  Virginian  Journey  195 

for  repose.  It  was  night  when  I  turned  to  go,  and 
the  sides  of  the  Alleghenies  still  had  some  faint  hues, 
worn,  no  doubt,  at  that  moment  by  every  fading 
mountain  line  from  the  Shenandoah  to  the  Green- 
brier. 

I  presently  found  the  house  which  the  boy  had 
pointed  out.  There  was  indeed  the  monkey.  The 
kitten  was  put  into  the  monkey's  box,  and  the  mon 
key  then  proceeded  to  do'as  the  boy  had  said.  She 
seized  it  in  her  arms,  kissed  it,  hugged  it,  and  dandled 
it.  The  kitten's  fore-legs  were  by  its  position  forced 
round  the  neck  of  the  monkey.  The  kitten's  figure 
was  the  more  humorous  of  the  two.  It  showed  an 
amusing  familiarity  with  the  situation  and  yet  a 
strong  dissent  from  it,  evidently  objecting  to  be  thus 
effaced,  and  with  many  cries  and  grimaces  stoutly 
asserting  its  feline  and  non-simian  character.  It 
would  now  and  then  scratch  its  foster-mother,  who 
would  slap  it,  and  then  embrace  it  still  more  fondly 
than  before.  The  monkey's  behavior  showed  that 
desperate,  indiscriminate  maternal  feeling  to  be  ob 
served  in  certain  childless  women. 

The  young  naturalist  and  demonstrator  squatted 
upon  his  heels,  with  his  little  bare  feet  in  the  mud, 
and  pointing  to  the  cage,  rehearsed  the  peculiarities 
of  the  pair,  as  he  had  daily  observed  them.  The 
commercial  idea,  however,  was  evidently  stronger 
in  his  mind  than  the  scientific  one,  as  he  showed  by 
the  careful  manner  in  which  he  scanned,  under  the 
moonlight,  the  coin  I  gave  him. 

The  new  Virginia  is  a  very  different  place  indeed 
from  that  I  knew  as  a  boy.  In  that  day  I  have  often 
ridden  over  green  fields  upon  which  the  city  of  Roa- 
noke  now  stands.  There  have  been  great  material 


196  A  Virginian  Village 

changes;  but  it  is  in  the  spirit  of  the  people  rather 
than  in  these  alterations  that  the  change  is  to  be 
observed,  and  this  spirit  is  preparing  far  greater 
material  changes  in  the  future.  The  new  spirit  of 
enterprise  is  very  surprising  to  anyone  who  has 
known  the  country  in  antebellum  days,  and  I  cannot 
say  that  the  new  order  of  things  is  altogether  agree 
able. 

Of  a  considerable  part  of  the  country  lying  upon 
the  Roanoke  I  must,  as  an  idle  boy  in  the  old  days 
of  slavery,  have  ridden  over  almost  every  foot.  As 
the  train  struck  the  bank  of  the  river  which  I  had 
not  seen  in  thirty  years — there  was  no  railway  in 
those  days  — a  boyish  memory  of  the  Roanoke  came 
into  my  mind.  It  was  of  old  Ben,  a  brown  horse 
that  used  to  carry  me  upon  the  sides  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  and  the  Alleghenies,  and  across  the  river 
heads  of  that  well-watered  country.  I  did  not  mind 
the  sun  in  those  days,  not  even  a  Virginian  sun,  but 
I  think  the  old  horse  was  never  so  well  contented 
as  when  I  stopped  him  in  the  shade  upon  a  mountain 
side,  and  from  his  back  picked  the  fox  grapes  or  the 
chicken  grapes  from  the  sweet  gums  that  overhung 
the  road,  while  the  Peaks  of  Otter  were  glittering 
forty  miles  away.  The  old  horse  was  a  rather  weari 
some  creature.  Familiarity  with  him  had  bred  con 
tempt.  I  had  nursed  him  through  the  scratches  and 
the  distemper,  and  altogether  had  found  him  tire 
some.  I  was  sitting  on  him  once  when  the  old  quad 
ruped  stood  up  to  his  belly  in  the  current  of  the 
Roanoke,  somewhat  apart  from  the  loud  and  violent 
channels  of  the  river,  his  nose  neglecting  the  stream 
which  breasted  us  with  strong  pulses,  his  eyes  wink 
ing  under  the  keen  blue  of  the  unclouded  sky.  We 


A  Virginian  Journey  197 

were  standing  there,  our  ears  stunned  with  the 
thunder  and  the  reverberation  of  the  lonely  place, 
when  suddenly,  his  wits  perhaps  affected  by  the 
sounding  and  moving  waters  and  the  solitude  of  the 
spot,  he  relaxed  his  limbs  and  rolled  luxuriously  in 
the  limpid  current,  leaving  me  to  get  ashore  as  best 
I  could — an  action  revealing  an  unsuspected  inde 
pendence  of  the  mind. 

It  had  been  years  since  I  had  seen  that  country, 
but  I  found  it  still  there.  The  blue  splinters  of  the 
Peaks  of  Otter  have  not  ceased  from  performing  their 
noonday  pranks;  Twelve-o'clock  Knob  will  still  as 
tonish  you  with  some  manifestation  of  his  immortal 
and  infinitely  varied  life;  the  desert  places  of  Roanoke 
and  Rockbridge  are  still  vocal  with  the  wailing  of 
many  waters. 

I  stopped  for  a  few  hours  at  a  little  town  on  the 
Roanoke,  in  which  I  once  lived.  I  remembered  it 
as  a  very  still  place;  it  had  now  been  awakened  by  a 
boom.  One  memory  that  came  back  to  me  seemed 
most  irreconcilable  with  the  bustling  modern  activity 
of  this  little  town  of  boom  times,  the  main  street  of 
which  now  looked  a  good  deal  like  a  town  in  Pennsyl 
vania.  I  have  seen  standing  on  the  auction  block 
which  was  formerly  in  front  of  that  Court  House  a 
grinning  negro  boy,  eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  age, 
stout-built  and  very  black,  much  elated  with  the 
encomiums  of  the  auctioneer  and  with  the  notice 
of  the  crowd,  while  the  bidders  would  come,  one  by 
one,  and  run  their  hands  up  and  down  his  legs  and 
feel  his  chest  and  arms.  I  do  not  remember  what 
he  brought.  But  the  boom  existed  mainly  in  the 
principal  street,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  affected 
the  lanes  and  by-ways.  Along  one  of  these  lanes  I 


198  A  Virginian  Village 

walked  at  a  late  hour  of  the  morning.  The  season 
was  the  end  of  May,  the  landscape  wonderfully 
green,  and  sweet  odors  were  flowing  from  the  pores 
of  the  loosened,  heated  earth.  There  was  lavish  sun 
everywhere,  and  yet  it  was  not  hot.  Above  me  was 
the  white  edifice  of  the  sunlit  air,  scintillating  with 
prismatic  hues,  replete  with  warmth  to  the  point 
of  saturation,  replete  also  with  the  incense  of  roses, 
and  of  the  flowers  of  the  late  blossoming  fruit  trees, 
and  alive  with  a  reckless  tumult  from  the  throbbing 
songs  of  birds.  And  yet  with  all  this  activity  there 
was  satiety,  and  Nature  was  contented.  Walking 
towards  that  part  of  the  place  in  which  a  college  is 
standing,  I  found  an  old  garden,  quite  shut  out  from 
the  rest  of  the  village,  in  which  the  grass  was  thick 
and  high,  and  there  were  quantities  of  roses  in  full 
bloom.  A  long  path  led  from  the  gate  to  the  house. 
Here  I  remained  for  a  little  while,  wondering  at  the 
seclusion  of  the  spot.  Presently  the  gate  opened, 
and  an  old  man  with  books  under  his  arm  walked  up 
the  path,  in  whom  I  recognized  with  some  difficulty 
an  old  preceptor.  I  remembered  him  as  a  man  in 
the  prime  of  life;  he  would  now  have  sat  for  a  repre 
sentation  of  conventional  old  age.  He  did  not  recog 
nize  me,  and  perhaps  scarcely  remembered  me.  We 
spoke  of  the  change  in  the  South.  But  there  was  no 
change  in  the  spot  on  which  we  stood.  That  green 
enclosure,  stirred  only  by  the  airs  of  the  early  sum 
mer,  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  boom  which 
was  boiling  in  the  main  street  of  the  village.  The  top 
of  Twelve-o'clock  Knob  and  the  belfry  of  the  adja 
cent  college  were  the  only  objects  which  could  see 
into  it.  There  was  a  faint  murmur  of  learning  from 
beyond  the  neighboring  lilac  hedge,  the  only  com- 


A  Virginian  Journey  199 

pany  suitable  to  the  blowing  grasses  and  severe  roses 
of  the  peaceful  garden.  I  asked  about  the  fortunes 
of  the  little  university.  Of  course,  it  was  sadly  in  need 
of  money  for  its  "fund"  for  the  purchase  of  chem 
ical  apparatus  and  for  its  other  "fund"  for  the  com 
pletion  of  the  "Hall  of  Science,"  and  it  had  just 
selected  one  of  that  new  sort  of  college  presidents,  a 
young  man  chosen  for  his  "executive  ability,"  which 
means  that  he  understands  how  to  get  this  money. 
One's  impression  was,  however:  "I  know  that  you  are 
not  very  pecunious.  But  I  dare  say  learning  may  be 
pursued  as  well  under  the  protection  of  your  some 
what  straitened  muses,  and  within  call  of  the  bell 
in  yonder  cupola,  as  if  you  had  a  million  or  two  from 
some  great  railroad  man  or  operator  in  stocks;  and 
that  there  are  books  enough  upon  the  cool  and  silent 
shelves — not  too  well  filled — of  your  rustic  library 
to  teach  all  the  philosophy  one  requires,  if  one  would 
only  appropriate  it  and  take  it  to  heart,  as  I  know 
you  have  done." 

When  I  admired  his  roses,  the  old  man  said:  "Yes, 
it  is  a  good  selection;  it  was  made  by  my  wife;  she 
died  two  years  ago."  He  mentioned  certain  persons 
who  could  talk  to  me  of  former  days;  to  this  I  sug 
gested  that  the  renewal  of  these  acquaintanceships, 
although  a  pleasure,  was,  perhaps,  a  melancholy  one. 
"It  would  be  so  if  it  were  not  for  the  hope  of  meeting 
in  a  better  world,"  said  the  old  man,  still  standing 
among  his  roses.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  talk,  but  a 
painful  expression  crossed  his  face  and  he  began  to 
cough.  He  said:  "I  have  been  suffering  a  good  deal 
from  the  asthma  of  late;  it  is  troubling  me  to-day," 
and  expressing  a  wish  to  serve  me,  he  disappeared 
into  the  house.  So  like  old  age,  with  one  eye  fixed 


2OO  A  Virginian  Village 

feebly  upon  the  highest  spiritual  ideas,  and  the  other, 
and  apparently  the  stronger  one,  upon  the  infirmities 
of  the  body. 

From  this  old  home  on  the  Roanoke  I  went  to  a 
still  older  one,  my  native  village  on  the  Greenbrier. 
This  is  a  hundred  miles  to  the  west,  on  the  summit 
of  the  Alleghenies.  In  making  this  journey,  you  cross 
the  water-shed  which  divides  the  streams  which  flow 
directly  into  the  Atlantic  from  those  which  flow  into 
the  Mississippi.  The  Greenbrier  and  the  Cow- 
pasture  Rivers  are  west  of  this  water-shed.  It  was 
almost  sundown  when  the  train  went  along  the  banks 
of  the  Cow-pasture.  To  me  it  is  not  a  pleasant 
thought  that  these  mountain  waters  are  to  find  their 
way  into  the  strange  and  muddy  Mississippi.  In 
that  remote  and  doleful  scene,  do  they  remember,  I 
wonder,  the  hour  when  they  lay  so  much  nearer  the 
sky,  in  their  rock-strewn,  plashy  bed  on  the  roof  of 
the  Alleghenies,  amid  the  dreaming  valleys  of  the 
Cow-pasture  River,  under  the  brooding  mountains, 
and  shone  on  by  the  evening  star's  yellow  light? 

My  native  village  is  2,500  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
has  mountains  about  it  which  are  4,000  feet.  The 
verdure  of  the  country  is  very  strong;  the  cause  of 
this  is  probably  the  blue-grass,  which  is  an  indigenous 
and  natural  growth,  and  does  not  have  to  be  planted. 
It  is  only  necessary  to  ring  the  forest  anywhere, 
and  it  will  spring  up.  It  is  found  all  the  way  up  the 
sides  and  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains. 
And  yet  it  cannot  be  altogether  the  blue-grass  which 
gives  the  country  its  verdure,  for  the  trees  have  the 
same  strong  hues  as  the  grass.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
character  of  the  soil  which  gives  to  both  this  strength; 
the  fields  and  farms,  as  you  walk  among  them,  show 


A  Virginian  Journey  201 

such  a  living  green,  so  fresh  and  gay,  with  a  Southern 
wealth,  yet  free  and  clear  as  the  North,  and  sound 
as  new  milk.  The  trees  crowd  the  sides  of  the  moun 
tains,  from  the  exquisite  curves  into  which  the  slopes 
dip  near  their  bases  to  where  their  summits  encounter 
the  morning  blue. 

The  village,  which  has  1,000  people,  and  which 
up  to  the  time  of  the  war  was  the  leading  one  within 
fifty  miles,  lies  in  a  depression,  and  is  on  this  account 
sometimes  called  "the  saucer  village."  The  street 
is  an  ellipse  which  descends  from  one  hill  top  and 
rises  to  another,  the  two  hills  being  about  a  mile 
apart  and  the  greater  part  of  the  village  in  the  middle 
at  the  bottom.  The  place  does  not  look  as  if  it  had 
a  future  or  much  of  a  present,  but  it  has  obviously  had 
a  past.  There  is  plenty  of  dilapidation,  which  you 
see  to  some  extent  in  the  brick  houses,  which  are  yet 
too  substantially  built  to  be  injured  by  neglect, 
and  still  more  plainly  in  the  wooden  houses.  And 
yet  a  number  of  the  nouses  show  thrift  and  comfort, 
have  broad,  two-story  piazzas  and  nice  gardens. 

The  village  has  the  verdure  common  to  that  coun 
try,  but  perhaps  that  of  the  village  is  made  all  the 
stronger  by  contrast  with  the  red  brick  houses  and 
red  roses.  At  any  rate,  I  have  a  feeling  there  of 
being  encompassed  by  greenness.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  greener  in  wet  or  dry  weather,  although 
I  should  be  inclined  to  say  on  wet  days.  Late  on  a 
wet  afternoon  the  street  on  the  east  end  of  the  town 
takes  a  dip  downward  upon  a  mixture  of  brick  and 
wooden  houses  and  green  sod  and  rose  gardens, 
half  concealed  among  oaks,  elms,  and  blossoming 
locusts, — the  air,  by  the  way,  very  strong  with  the 
powerfully  sweet  smell  of  the  locust  flowers.  There 


202  A  Virginian  Village 

are,  I  may  add,  certain  smells,  which,  wherever  I 
have  known  them,  have  always  brought  me  back 
to  this  place.  I  thought  I  should  try  and  find  out 
what  they  were.  One  is  locust.  There  is  also  the 
smell  of  boxwood.  Then  there  is  the  acid  smell  of 
sour  grass,  and  there  are  other  smells  which  one  is 
not  able  to  grasp  or  name  before  they  are  gone.  One, 
which  I  had  supposed  to  be  recondite  and  mysterious, 
I  find  to  be  simply  that  of  the  breath  of  cows.  But 
this  you  find  mostly  in  the  back  streets,  of  which  there 
are  two,  running  parallel  with  the  main  street,  one  on 
either  side  of  it,  and  which  are  perfectly  green  and 
covered  with  close-cropped  sod.  On  one  of  these 
back  lanes  there  is  still  standing  a  stable,  which  lay 
at  the  extreme  corner  of  a  most  familiar  garden. 
In  former  and  more  prosperous  days,  of  which  the 
old  "  black  mammy,"  Harriet,  was  the  historian,  it 
had  had  three  or  four  horses;  at  the  time  of  which  I 
am  speaking  it  had  nothing  but  fleas.  It  was  alive 
with  them.  I  soon  learned  to  give  it  a  wide  berth, 
even  in  the  road  passing  it  on  the  other  side;  as  it 
lay  remote  under  the  sun  in  the  corner  of  the  garden, 
shunned  even  by  the  hardy  currants  and  sunflowers, 
it  seemed,  to  the  sensitive  imagination  and  cuticle  of 
childhood,  fairly  to  tingle. 

The  village  is  pretty  far  to  the  south,  and  the 
weather  in  midsummer  is  usually  clear,  and  is  hot 
also.  The  vegetation  has  a  semi-tropical  profusion. 
This  is  evident  in  the  way  the  roses  grow.  A  brick 
house  about  two  miles  from  the  town,  with  which  I 
have  been  familiar  from  a  child,  has  a  two-story 
verandah  in  front,  of  which  an  old  rose  bush  covers 
both  stories.  I  asked  a  cousin — a  middle-aged  wom 
an,  in  whom  a  girlish  face  of  former  days  looked 


A  Virginian  Journey  203 

out  from  such  irrelevant  accessories  as  gray  hair  and 
lines  on  the  forehead  and  about  the  eyes — when  it 
was  planted.  She  had  been  born  in  this  house  and 
lived  there  all  her  life,  yet  it  had  been  there  as  long  as 
she  could  remember.  These  bushes  are  visited  by 
humming  birds,  although  I  think  they  are  more  apt 
to  be  seen  on  the  porches  covered  with  honeysuckles. 
But  it  is  the  hum  of  that  sleeping  projectile,  the 
bumble  bee,  which  is  the  voice  of  these  rose  trees — 
a  much  lustier  creature  than  the  Northern  one, 
twice  the  size  perhaps,  with  a  much  broader  expanse 
of  cloth  of  gold  upon  his  back,  and  conducting  him 
self  with  a  swagger  and  a  saturnine  dignity  like  a 
bull's;  formidable  and  with  a  look  of  momentum 
about  him;  scarcely  conscious  of  that  reserved 
armory  of  offense  you  are  careful  not  to  awaken, 
and  yet  expecting  like  emperors  and  other  dangerous 
things  to  be  got  out  of  the  way  of,  he  hangs  amid  the 
sun-laden  atmosphere  of  his  fragrant  den  near  the 
thorn,  the  canker-worm,  and  the  blossom.  The 
village  is  full  of  these  rose  trees.  At  night  especially 
the  air  is  very  strong  with  the  smell  of  them.  The 
spreading  branches  of  the  oaks  and  evergreens  keep 
to  earth  the  fragrance  of  the  gardens,  which  amid 
summer  sights  and  odors  seem  to  await  the  moon- 
rise;  and  presently,  preceded  by  upward  streaming 
roseate  lights  and  vapors,  the  edge  of  the  moon,  peer 
ing  above  the  rim  of  the  illumined  hill,  in  an  instant 
gilds  the  vast  scene. 

My  village  is  a  place  that  few  people  have  ever 
heard  of,  and  which  has  a  humble  opinion  of  itself. 
It  nevertheless  receives  within  its  modest  horizon 
visitors  of  some  note.  The  brilliant  Venus,  subject 
of  forgotten  poets,  looks  down  upon  our  lanes  and 


204  A  Virginian  Village 

gardens;  and  I  have  seen  the  little  Presbyterian 
steeple  keep  the  sky,  as  twin  occupant,  with  Saturn, 
worshipped  on  Chaldean  plains  as  the  "  highest  star 
in  Heaven,"  before  the  Man  of  Ur  went  to  found  a 
nation  in  Canaan.  It  is,  in  my  judgment,  a  beautiful 
village.  Even  in  the  morning,  when  the  strong  sun 
brings  to  light  the  shabbiness  of  the  shops  and  houses, 
and  renders  faint  and  dull  the  green  of  the  hills, 
and  makes  still  whiter  the  white  limestone  rocks 
of  the  hill-sides,  it  is  pleasant  to  see.  But  as  the 
afternoon  advances  the  beauty  of  the  place  begins 
to  surprise  you.  If,  at  a  late  hour  of  the  afternoon, 
especially  after  a  shower,  you  are  looking  down  upon 
it  from  one  of  the  surrounding  hills,  the  appearance 
of  the  village,  with  its  glancing  lights  and  its  brilliant 
red  and  emerald  hues,  is  like  that  sudden,  vivid  ex 
pression  of  an  infant,  when  alone  he  turns  his  bright 
smile  upon  his  mother  and  reveals  to  her  wondering 
eye  his  incredible  beauty  of  mind.  Then  comes  the 
sunset,  and  a  little  later  a  planet  or  two  appear  on 
high.  Next  the  light  of  a  lamp  is  seen  at  a  door  or 
window,  and  the  household  lights  then  begin  to  move 
about.  Perhaps  there  is  something  interesting  about 
these  first  wandering  lights  of  the  village.  It  is  as 
if  the  human  heart  would  answer  to  those  unregarding 
planets,  which  in  their  sapphire  depths  stand  with 
such  strength  and  youth  from  their  ancient  journeys, 
the  faint,  far  glimmering  ray  of  a  gentle  but  tranquil 
hope. 

There  are  three  or  four  churches  in  the  village. 
There  is  a  brick  church,  which  was  the  property  of 
the  Methodists,  but  which  during  the  war  was  given 
to  the  negroes.  A  hole  in  the  wall  of  this  building, 
made  by  a  cannon-ball  which  passed  through  it, 


A  Virginian  Journey  205 

is  still  to  be  seen;  the  negroes  have  utilized  the  aper 
ture  by  running  out  of  it  a  stove-pipe  with  an  elbow. 
The  whites,  thus  ejected  from  their  own  church, 
have  built  a  small  frame  one  not  far  away.  Another 
is  the  Episcopalian,  but,  as  it  is  not  rich  enough  to 
have  a  clergyman,  it  is  for  the  most  part  closed,  and 
seems  in  its  significant  quiet  to  invite  a  query  from 
the  other  meeting  houses,  whether  its  god  is  asleep 
or  gone  upon  a  journey.  But  the  leading  faith  of  the 
country  is  the  Presbyterian.  This  is  mainly  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  people  are  nearly  all  of  Scotch- 
Irish  descent.  The  Presbyterian  church,  a  stone  one, 
very  clean  and  substantial,  was  built  about  1790. 
The  village  graveyard  surrounds  it.  This  might 
really  be  called  the  State  church  of  the  community, 
which  from  the  adjacent  valleys  for  many  miles 
around  comes  to  the  Sunday  morning  service.  The 
young  minister  is  a  very  good  preacher.  The  choir 
is  composed  mostly  of  young  ladies,  the  young  men 
having  left  for  more  thriving  parts.  The  Presby 
terians,  I  believe,  make  much  of  their  hymnology, 
perhaps  because  their  service  is  in  other  respects 
devoid  of  effort  to  please  or  attract.  Yet  I  am  not 
sure  that  there  is  not  something  striking  and  pic 
turesque  in  the  severity  of  this  ritual,  as  perhaps 
there  is  also  in  the  definite  and  uncompromising  creed 
of  this  denomination,  its  aggressive  tone  and  its 
executive  form  of  church  government.  People 
holding  this  creed  might  be  expected  to  express  them 
selves  with  some  joyfulness,  which  they  do  in  their 
vigorous  hymnology.  One  gets  an  impression  of 
joyful  energy  in  listening  to  the  choir  of  a  dozen 
young  women  in  the  stone  church  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  where  under  a  midsummer  sky  of  unclouded 


206  A  Virginian  Village 

blue,  amid  cleanly  rocks,  bordered  by  rills  of  purest 
limestone  water,  and  in  an  atmosphere  scented  by  the 
white  blossoms  of  the  rude  and  simple  blackberry 
vines,  they  asseverate,  with  really  tuneful  voices 
and  a  good  volume  of  bold  sound,  that  "  God  will 
their  strength  and  refuge  prove,"  or  admonish  the 
"  trembling  saints  "  to  "  fresh  courage,"  or  approach 
Deity  with  some  such  confident  and  familiar  strain 
as  "Come,  thou  Almighty  King." 

It  is  curious  in  this  country  to  see  the  compro 
mise  between  the  thrift  and  vigor  of  the  Scotch-Irish 
stock  on  the  one  side  and  the  results  of  slavery  on 
the  other.  The  energy  of  the  people  was,  of  course, 
affected  by  slavery;  even  in  their  most  prosperous 
days  they  had  not  the  vigor  of  free  populations; 
the  war  ruined  them  and  they  have  not  recovered 
from  the  poverty  in  which  it  left  them.  You  see  the 
effects  of  this  poverty  in  the  graveyard  which  sur 
rounds  the  Presbyterian  church,  which  is  indeed  the 
Greenbrier  burying  ground.  People  have  died,  and 
their  relatives  have  meant  to  mark  the  graves,  but 
the  money  which  might  have  gone  to  build  monu 
ments  has  been  needed  from  day  to  day  and  week  to 
week.  The  pious  intentions  cool  with  time  and  with 
the  unremitting  pressure  of  everyday  affairs;  and 
it  is  by-and-by  thought  that  the  dead  can  better 
afford  to  wait  than  the  living.  The  result  is  that 
the  graves  remain  unmarked  save  by  the  unbought 
magnificence  of  the  roses,  with  which,  from  end  to 
end,  the  churchyard  is  filled  abundantly.  These 
wave  throughout  the  livelong  summer's  day,  as  if 
in  atonement  for  the  narrow  circumstances  or  the 
sordid  forgetfulness  of  the  survivors;  while  the  people 
go  about  their  quiet  occupations,  the  roses,  in  their 


A  Virginian  Journey  207 

unnoticed  enclosure  on  the  edge  of  the  village,  still 
wave  and  toss  to  the  blue  sky,  as  if  importunately 
calling  the  living  to  the  recollection  and  commemora 
tion  of  the  dead. 

The  only  industry  of  this  country  was  the  raising 
of  sheep,  cattle,  and  horses.  It  had  at  one  time 
extremely  good  horses.  General  Lee's  favorite  horse 
"Traveller"  was  from  Greenbrier,  being  the  colt 
of  a  thoroughbred  horse  out  of  a  common  mare  of  the 
country;  General  Curtis  Lee  told  me  he  had  four 
white  feet,  a  defect,  if  it  be  one,  which  he  shares  with 
many  famous  horses.  General  Lee,  I  believe,  tried 
to  find  the  dam  of  "  Traveller  "  in  Greenbrier,  but 
did  not  succeed.  The  Greenbrier  region  is  too  moun 
tainous  for  agriculture  on  a  large  scale,  and  no  mines 
have  ever  been  opened  there;  the  modern  boom  has 
not  affected  it.  The  people  go  on  raising  very  fair 
stock.  In  the  future,  as  their  fortunes  improve, 
which  they  are  pretty  sure  to  do,  a  better  strain  of 
horses  will  be  introduced.  It  is,  indeed,  somewhat 
difficult  to  see  how  it  can  pay  to  bring  good  horses 
into  the  country  for  breeding,  when  not  more  than 
$10  can  be  charged  for  service;  and  certainly  a  farmer 
cannot  pay  more  than  this  who  has  to  keep  a  colt 
for  three  or  four  years  and  then  sell  him  for  $100. 
But  better  prices  will  come  with  improved  stock; 
the  people  should  at  least  have  as  good  horses  as 
they  once  had,  and  their  horses  were  formerly  very 
good.  My  own  earliest  equine  recollections  are  con 
nected  with  this  country,  and  with  a  certain  "  Dusty 
Miller,"  an  old  dun  horse,  of  infinite  patience  and 
paternal  feeling.  He  was  at  that  time  well  on  in  the 
twenties,  the  period  of  his  birth  and  youth  being,  of 
course,  lost  in  the  dimmest  antiquity.  The  name, 


208  A  Virginian  Village 

as  applied  to  a  dun  horse,  probably  had  reference 
to  the  yellowish  color  of  meal,  with  which  a  Vir 
ginian  miller  would  be  likely  to  be  covered.  I  in 
quired  about  him  of  the  cousin  above  mentioned: 
she  exclaimed,  surprised  and  pleased,  "  Why,  do 
you  remember  'Dusty  Miller '?"  I  did  indeed.  My 
uncle,  her  father,  was  not  one  of  those  who  thought 
anything  was  good  enough  for  little  boys.  He  al 
ways  had  for  us  a  nice  sheepskin,  which  he  had  dyed 
black  so  that  it  might  not  look  dirty  (or  did  he  save 
the  black  sheepskins  ?)  and  a  surcingle  to  go  round  it 
— a  most  comfortable  seat.  If  anyone,  it  may  be 
added,  wishes  a  monument,  perhaps  not  more  en 
during  than  brass,  but  almost  as  good  as  a  shiny 
white  tombstone,  such  as  that  which  now  marks  the 
good  colonel's  grave  in  the  Greenbrier  Churchyard, 
and  which  in  a  few  decades  will  be  overrun  with 
strong  grasses  and  obliterated  by  tangled  wild  roses, 
let  him  do  intelligent  kindnesses  to  children. 

A  horse  is  a  necessity  in  this  country.  Fortunately 
it  is  not  expensive  to  have  one.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  will  buy  a  good  horse,  and  you  can  keep 
him  for  $2  a  week.  But  you  must  ride  in  the  morn 
ings  and  evenings.  An  excellent  arrangement  of  the 
day  would  be  this.  Rise  early,  for  this  country  is 
pretty  far  to  the  south,  and  the  sun  soon  gets  hot. 
Ride  for  an  hour  or  two  and  come  back  to  a  bath  and 
breakfast.  Read  or  write  in  the  morning.  The 
prospects  from  your  window  are  pleasing.  It  is  very 
still;  you  hear  nothing  but  the  busy  song  of  birds  and 
the  wind  among  the  leaves;  the  village  streets  are 
almost  as  quiet  as  the  gardens.  There  is  no  distrac 
tion,  except  when  a  bumble  bee  comes  in  at  the  open 
window,  ih  which  case  you  are,  perhaps,  for  a  while 


A  Virginian  Journey  209 

constrained  by  the  presence  of  this  splendid  person 
age,  and  secretly  wish  your  oppressively  distinguished 
company  would  exercise  the  royal  privilege  of  bring 
ing  the  interview  to  a  close.  I  never  found  any  place 
where  I  could  read  with  more  advantage  than  here. 
You  dine  at  two,  and  in  the  afterr  :>on  sleep  a  good 
deal,  or  sit  about  the  village  stores  and  taverns,  or 
walk  in  some  neighboring  wood.  You  ride  again 
at  six  and  get  back  at  eight,  when  it  is  dark,  to  tea, 
which  should  be  a  substantial  one.  The  food  of  the 
country  will  do  very  well:  fried  chicken,  excellent 
salads  and  raw  tomatoes,  strawberries,  raspberries 
and  peaches  with  cream,  and  various  kinds  of  cake, 
in  the  preparation  of  which  the  people  have  great 
skill.  For  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening  the  best 
thing  to  do  is  to  sit  about  the  odorous  verandahs 
of  which  mention  has  been  made,  in  the  company  of 
some  good-looking  young  people.  With  this  schedule 
in  view,  I  know  of  no  better  place  to  spend  the 
summers  in  than  my  native  village. 

No  doubt  the  most  interesting  peculiarity  of  Vir 
ginia  and  of  Southern  society  is  the  black  population. 
The  perplexing  nature  of  the  race  problem  lends  an 
interest  to  that  society  which  is  wanting  to  the  garish 
and  commonplace  prosperity  of  the  North.  The 
problem  is,  no  doubt,  a  tragic  one.  How  are  the 
races  to  live  together  separate  and  yet  in  accord? 
Or  are  they  to  be  for  ever  separate?  What  will  be 
the  solution  of  the  remote  future?  And  yet,  from  my 
observation,  I  should  say  that  the  concern  which  is 
commonly  expressed  on  this  subject  is  rather  of  the 
nature  of  borrowing  trouble.  The  relations  of  the 
races  are  fairly  comfortable  and  grow  more  comfort 
able.  The  negroes — or,  as  they  prefer  to  be  called, 


21 0  A  Virginian  Village 

the  colored  people — are  getting  to  have  more  self- 
respect  than  they  had  formerly.  They  are  clever 
enough  to  be  educated,  as  anyone  may  see  by  at 
tending  the  schools.  The  education  given  them  is, 
perhaps,  rather  imitative,  and,  it  may  be,  does  not 
sufficiently  take  account  of  race  characteristics.  I 
went  to  one  high  school  in  Virginia,  and  was  present 
at  a  class  of  English  literature,  taught  by  the  princi 
pal,  an  intelligent  mulatto.  The  young  men  and 
women  were  parsing  and  criticising,  of  all  subjects 
under  the  sun,  Pope's  "Rape  of  the  Lock!"  The 
amusing  feature  of  the  exercise  was  that  neither 
teacher  nor  pupil,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  were  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  what 
could  be  more  remote  from  the  simple  and  saccharine 
characteristics  of  the  negro  nature  than  the  elegant 
artificiality  and  the  refined  exaggeration  of  this  work? 
But  I  dare  say  the  colored  people  are  quite  capable 
of  receiving  suitable  literary  education. 

The  black  population,  of  course,  profoundly  dis 
tinguishes  Southern  society  from  that  of  the  North. 
Among  the  peculiarities  to  be  observed  in  that  so 
ciety  which  are  due  to  the  presence  of  the  blacks, 
I  will  mention  one  which  is  important.  The  common 
notion,  and  it  was  my  own,  is  that  the  aristocratic 
quality  of  Southern  society  disappeared  with  the 
abolition  of  slavery.  My  Virginian  journey  gave 
me  a  different  notion.  The  fact  of  the  presence  of  a 
great  class,  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  community 
by  the  color  of  their  skin,  and  ready  to  do  menial 
labor,  will,  it  appears  to  me,  always  give  an  aristo 
cratic  quality  to  the  society  of  the  South  which  other 
parts  of  the  Union  will  not  have.  The  circumstances 
of  life  in  the  North  compel  a  democratic  tone.  Every- 


A  Virginian  Journey  211 

body  there  postpones  being  a  gentleman:  the  poor 
man  will  be  a  gentleman  when  he  is  rich,  the  rich 
man  when  he  has  the  leisure.  Owing,  however,  to 
the  presence  of  the  negroes,  it  is  easy  in  the  South 
for  even  a  poor  man  to  have  this  feeling.  There  is 
always  a  member  of  that  race  at  h  ind  to  look  after 
his  horse,  or  carry  his  bag,  or  black  his  boots.  This 
condition  of  life  in  the  South  must  have  its  effect 
upon  the  tone  of  society  at  large.  It  is,  perhaps, 
owing  to  this  peculiarity  as  well  as  to  the  advantages 
of  climate,  soil,  and  scenery  which  the  State  has, 
that  Virginia  is  so  favorite  a  place  for  the  English. 
There  are  great  numbers  of  English  in  Virginia,  and 
those  of  them  who  have  the  qualities  which  give 
success  in  other  parts  of  the  world  get  on  well  there, 
and,  I  believe,  usually  like  the  country. 


CONTRASTS  OF  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN 
SCENERY 

HAVING  lately  visited  England  after  a  long 
absence,  my  mind,  both  there  and  since  my 
return,  has  been  busy  with  the  subject  of  the  re 
lations  between  our  scenery  and  that  of  the  Old 
World.  I  visited  a  dull  part  of  Hampshire;  on 
leaving  the  house  where  I  was  staying,  it  was  neces 
sary  to  get  up  to  an  early  breakfast  to  catch  a  train. 
Two  young  soldiers,  very  pleasant  and  friendly  fel 
lows,  who  went  away  at  the  same  time,  were  in  the 
cab  with  me.  Reference  was  made  to  the  scenery, 
and  one  of  them,  who  had  been  in  America,  said, 
"You  Americans  may  not  always  say  you  admire 
England,  but  in  your  hearts  you  know  there  is  noth 
ing  like  it."  I  looked  out  of  the  cab  window  at  the 
flat  and  very  rolled-out  landscape,  cut  up  into  squares 
and  plots  by  iron  fences,  which,  however,  with  its 
sparse  oaks  standing  here  and  there,  was  not  without 
a  classic  grace,  and  thought  of  the  fresh  and  magic 
outlines  of  the  Virginian  mountains.  But  the  hour 
was  much  too  early  and  too  drowsy  to  allow  of  any 
expression  of  dissent.  It  is  an  old  question,  that 
between  the  scenery  of  the  two  worlds.  It  is  a 
simple  one,  however,  with  an  obvious  answer.  Here 
it  is  primeval  and  virgin  nature;  there,  nature 
affected  by  man  and  art. 

The  difference  between  European  and  American 
trees  and  woodlands  is  significant  of  this.  Early 
in  September  an  acquaintance  took  me  to  look  at  a 


Contrasts  of  English  and  American  Scenery  213 

remarkable  oak  on  his  place  in  Essex,  which  he  said 
had  been  thought  by  some  persons  to  be  a  relic  of 
the  ancient  British  forest.  This  oak,  which  was  not 
very  high,  threw  its  powerful  arms  straight  out  in 
all  directions  over  a  wide  space  of  ground.  Certainly 
such  a  tree  could  not  have  stood  in  an  aboriginal 
forest.  There  would  not  have  been  sufficient  sun 
to  produce  so  great  an  amount  of  leafage,  and  there 
would  have  been  no  room  for  such  a  vast  lateral  ex 
tension.  It  so  happened  that  only  a  few  months 
before,  in  June  perhaps,  I  had  seen  in  Tennessee  a 
good  deal  of  a  forest  which  was  almost  virgin.  The 
trees  went  straight  upward  to  a  great  height,  the 
boles  being  clean  of  branches  a  long  distance  from 
the  ground,  and  the  leafage  scant  except  at  the  top, 
where  it  received  the  sun.  I  rode  into  the  middle 
of  this  forest.  The  trees  were  often  so  close  together 
that  it  would  have  been  hard  for  a  horse  to  go  be 
tween  them,  and  my  horse  followed  the  bed  of  a 
stream  which  was  so  shallow  that  it  scarcely  more 
than  wet  his  fetlocks,  the  rhododendrons  being  very 
thick  on  each  side  of  me.  Halting  in  the  midst  of 
the  level  floor  of  the  forest,  it  was  an  impressive 
scene  which  I  found.  The  pale  and  lofty  trunks 
stood  everywhere  parallel,  and  with  a  stately  de 
corum  and  regularity,  except  where,  halfway  up  the 
adjacent  mountain-side,  some  tumbling  trees,  lean 
ing  at  angles  against  their  surrounding  fellows,  which 
had  arrested  them  in  falling,  varied  the  universal 
propriety  with  a  noble  confusion,  the  gray  trunks 
looking  like  mighty  fallen  pillars  of  a  ruined  temple. 
The  serried  columns  seemed  to  await  the  deep-toned 
adoration  of  some  procession  of  chanting  Druids. 
The  scene  around  me  was  without  a  voice — such 


314  A  Virginian  Village 

faint,  occasional  twitter  of  bird  life  as  there  was 
serving  only  to  deepen  the  stillness.  Where  was 
the  voice  of  the  place?  There  was  continuous  twi 
light,  touched  here  and  there  by  some  stray  sun 
beam  which  a  rift  overhead  had  let  through.  At 
the  foot  of  some  vast  column  I  found  the  morning- 
glory,  surprised  in  such  a  place  to  come  upon  this 
ornament  of  the  domestic  sill,  and  companion  of  the 
bright  face  of  childhood.  But  the  hue  of  its  glisten 
ing  cup  was  as  fresh  and  dewy  amid  these  religious 
shadows  as  if  in  some  sunlighted  and  human  garden 
spot;  the  flower,  however,  not  without  a  sense  of 
exile,  and  conscious,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  of  the  ab 
sence  of  those  welcome  voices  and  shining  faces  of 
the  cottage  door. 

It  is  true  that  our  scenery  is  not  rich  in  its  associa 
tions  of  human  history.  This  source  of  interest  we 
have  here  only  to  a  slight  degree.  But  the  land 
scape  has  its  own  history.  Is  it  not  well  to  con 
sider  that  history?  Is  not  scenery  made  more  im 
pressive  by  the  study  of  those  sublime  changes  which 
have  prepared  the  world  which  we  see,  and  may  not 
the  disclosures  of  men  %of  science,  so  far  as  the  un 
learned  are  capable  of  comprehending  them,  be 
brought  to  the  service  of  the  sense  of  natural  beauty? 
There  are,  indeed,  times  when  one  fancies  that  the 
historic  facts  linger  on  the  face  of  nature.  Chau- 
tauqua  Lake,  in  the  southwestern  part  of  the  State 
of  New  York,  not  many  miles  south  of  Lake  Erie,  is 
a  fine  sheet  of  clear  water,  a  few  miles  long,  and  per 
haps  a  mile  wide.  One  perfectly  clear  evening  I  sat 
in  a  boat  on  the  lake,  the  quiet  surface  of  which  was 
encompassed  by  a  crimson  stain  possessing  the  entire 
circle  of  the  horizon,  with  the  pale  azure  of  the  sky 


Contrasts  of  English  and  American  Scenery  215 

above  without  a  cloud.  The  red  hues  were  in  the 
air  and  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  The  only  other 
occupant  of  the  boat  was  a  young  girl,  whose  youth 
ful  coloring  was  blended  with,  and  was  a  part  of,  that 
in  the  air  and  upon  the  waters.  We  spoke  of  the 
mighty  change  of  which  this  still  lake  had  once  been 
the  scene.  The  lake's  outlet  was  at  one  time  north 
ward  into  Lake  Erie,  and  through  the  St.  Lawrence 
to  the  ocean.  But  the  Ice  Age  came,  and  dumped 
a  lot  of  debris  to  the  north  of  Chautauqua,  which 
forced  the  waters  of  the  lake  southward  into  the 
Ohio,  so  that  they  now  seek  the  Atlantic  through  the 
Mississippi  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  A  reminiscence 
of  those  boreal  ages  lingered  on  the  chill  shores  and 
in  the  crystal  heavens,  a  sense  of  the  pole  and  of 
arctic  scenes.  Of  this  mighty  event  we  talked,  two 
waifs  or  motes  floating  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
roseate  evening,  as  transient  as  the  diaphanous 
vapors  which  surrounded  us. 

Another  contrast  there  may  be  in  the  scenery  of 
the  two  lands.  There  is  this  to  be  said  of  English 
scenery:  it  is  suitable  to  the  luxury  and  comfort  of 
English  country  life.  It  is  appropriate  to  the  Eng 
lish  flesh-pots.  There  are  plenty  of  country-houses 
throughout  England  in  which  material  comforts 
are  of  the  best,  and  which  at  certain  seasons 
contain  much  agreeable  company  of  both  sexes.  I 
had  some  experience  of  such  a  house  in  Surrey.  The 
library  was  excellent;  for  a  wonder  the  weather  was 
good,  the  ephemeral  British  sunshine  remaining  all 
day  on  the  southern  walls,  and  really  lavish  among 
those  flowers  of  the  garden  you  do  not  perhaps  know 
by  name.  Easily  detained  by  such  an  existence  you 
are  not  inclined  to  anything  more  active  than  some 


216  A  Virginian  Village 

kind  of  pleasant  reading,  and  are  likely  to  lose  your 
place  at  that,  while  your  gaze  rests  upon  the  hills  to 
the  west.  To  such  a  life  and  such  a  state  of  mind  the 
vague,  soft  aspect  of  the  Surrey  hills  was  most  suit 
able — two  impalpable  ranges  of  hills,  alluring  to  the 
eyes.  Essences  they  seemed,  rather  than  substance 
or  matter,  and  unreal,  save  in  their  gentle,  emerald 
coloring;  and  they  were  always  lying  there,  quiver 
ing  as  in  a  dream — a  mirage  which  did  not  go  away. 

If  there  is  an  agreement  between  luxury  and  Eng 
lish  scenery,  my  sentiment  is  that,  on  the  contrary, 
luxury  does  not  suit  our  scenery.  An  iron  foundry, 
strange  to  say,  does  no  harm;  a  forge,  a  factory  by 
the  side  of  a  pond  filled  with  water-lilies  (I  have  now 
in  mind  the  New  England  landscape) — these  are  not 
unsuitable.  But  a  fine  house  in  some  way  is.  Ar 
chitecture,  both  private  and  public,  should  be  such 
as  is  suited  to  the  local  requirements  and  history.  A 
white  spire,  for  instance,  marking  such  a  church  as 
New  England  farmers  have  built  for  generations, 
what  an  eloquent  object  in  a  wide  and  undulating 
view!  The  manner  of  life  should  be  simple  also. 
An  eight  o'clock  dinner  and  champagne  are  out  of 
place.  People  should  dine  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 
The  evening  meal,  however,  should  be  late,  for  it  is 
a  serious  mistake  to  take  the  hour  of  sunset,  for 
which  the  twenty-four  have  been  a  preparation,  as 
one  in  which  to  eat  something.  In  our  semi-tropical 
summer  people  should  adopt  the  tropical  habit  of 
rising  early;  it  will  do,  however,  if  they  are  out  of 
doors,  say,  within  an  hour  after  sunrise,  for  it  is  not 
till  then  that  the  dawn  becomes  "incense-breath 
ing";  this  quality  the  air  has  not  acquired  when  the 
sun  first  appears.  And  yet  it  seems  a  great  pity 


Contrasts  of  English  and  American  Scenery  217 

that  the  sunrise,  that  most  auspicious  of  nature's 
facts,  should  not  be  noticed,  at  any  rate  from  one's 
bedroom  window.  Its  advent  is  never  so  benign  as 
in  a  sky  without  a  cloud;  the  orb,  as  it  emerges, 
kindling  the  rim  of  the  verdant  meadow  with  cheer 
ful  promise — irresistible  sign  of  life  and  friend  of  man. 


CUMBERLAND  GAP 

SUNRISE  on  four  States.  I  have  been  seeing  that 
for  a  month  past.  Virginia  and  Kentucky  divide 
the  mountain-top  on  which  stands  my  shanty;  I  can 
almost  throw  a  stone  into  Tennessee;  and,  across 
Tennessee,  can  see  North  Carolina. 

I  have  seldom  seen  the  sun  rise,  and  am  therefore 
getting  up  a  new  subject.  The  air  at  sunrise  is 
languid.  The  moon  has  more  to  do  with  dawn  than 
I  supposed.  I  have  seen  it  almost  in  the  zenith,  full 
and  splendid  amid  the  borrowed  crimson  hues  which 
encompass  it;  secure  and  serene,  like  old  dynasties 
just  before  their  hour  of  dissolution.  The  sun  has 
just  risen,  clear  and  modest;  and  you  wonder  by 
what  gradations  the  full  orb,  which  remains  above 
with  such  promise  of  permanence,  is  to  get  out  of  the 
way  with  decency.  That  happens  in  this  manner; 
it  contrives  to  be  forgotten.  Later  you  think  to  look 
for  the  moon,  and  you  discover,  far  down  in  the  west, 
an  unreal,  silvered  sphere  or  spheroid,  which  imi 
tates  the  complexion  of  the  sky,  escaping  among  the 
tops  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains. 

But  the  moon's  hour  will  return.  To-night  she 
will  be  at  her  old  station,  hearkening  to  all  the  noises, 
the  cries  of  the  insect  sexes,  with  which  the  land  of 
Tennessee  is  audible. 

There  were  days  when  I  saw  the  sunrise  through 
the  window  from  my  cot.  But  a  sapling  obscured 
my  view  of  it,  and  I  asked  permission  to  cut  the  tree 
down.  I  was  told  that  I  might  do  that  if  it  was  on 
the  Virginia  side,  but  not  if  it  was  on  the  Kentucky 


Cumberland  Gap  219 

side.  It  was  on  the  Virginia  side,  and  I  went,  like 
Boone  himself,  ax  in  hand,  and  felled  the  sapling. 
It  was  a  sassafras  tree.  Perhaps,  by  the  way,  I 
ought  not  to  have  cut  down  sassafras;  I  know  it  is 
considered  bad  luck  in  this  country  to  burn  that 
wood.  There  are  many  mountaineers  of  this  region 
who  would  not  burn  sassafras  on  any  account. 

It  is,  of  course,  the  line  of  the  water-shed  which 
constitutes  the  State  boundary.  Now  an  elevation  of 
a  few  inches  will  often  turn  water.  So  on  this  moun 
tain  top,  it  is  possible  for  so  humble  an  individual 
as  myself,  with  a  spade,  in  the  course  of  a  few  min 
utes  to  affect  the  confines  of  empire. 

And  now  the  strengthening  sun  dispels  the  mist 
over  Tennessee  plain  and  Kentucky  vale,  and  quick 
ens  the  atmosphere  with  wholesome  force,  and  evokes 
from  the  soil  and  shrubbery  of  our  mountain  their 
morning  fragrance.  But  I  go  to  the  shed,  where 
breakfast  is  being  cooked  by  the  man  and  the  boy 
who  are  my  only  companions,  and  inhale  rather  the 
odors  of  the  stew  and  the  coffee.  What  luck  to  have 
found  a  good  cook  on  this  mountain! 

I  have  already  fed  my  horse.  There  is  no  stable 
and  no  feed,  and  I  am  obliged  every  evening  to  bring 
up  his  oats  in  saddle-bags  from  the  boom  town  in  the 
Valley,  a  distance  of  five  miles.  The  start  down  the 
mountain  is  early.  The  descent  among  the  sun- 
flecked  shadows  of  that  forest  road  will  be  pleasant. 
On  the  way  to  the  town  I  turn  to  the  left  over 
Cumberland  Gap  to  give  my  horse  a  drink  in  the 
immense  spring  of  sweetest  and  purest  freestone 
water,  which  issues  from  a  cave  in  the  mountain 
side.  I  am  almost  as  much  pleased  as  he  is,  when  he 
dips  his  nose  into  that  crystal  pool. 


TYPES  OF  KENTUCKY  SADDLE-HORSES 

I  SPENT  two  months  in  Kentucky  in  the  '903  with 
the  view  of  seeing  the  Kentucky  saddle-horse  in  his 
own  country,  and  the  present  paper  gives  the  result  of 
my  observations.  By  the  term  "Kentucky  saddle- 
horse"  is  usually  meant  the  Denmark  horse  (the 
descendant  of  the  famous  Denmark,  a  thoroughbred 
foaled  in  1839,  and  of  many  of  his  progeny  that  have 
borne  the  same  name),  and  that  horse  still  holds  a 
very  important  place  among  Kentucky  horses.  It 
is,  however,  I  think,  not  widely  understood  to  how 
great  a  degree  the  horse  now  trained  for  saddle  use 
in  Kentucky  is  a  mixture  of  various  strains  of  blood 
with  the  Denmark  stock,  and  especially  how  much 
he  usually  has  of  trotting  blood.  Most  of  the  horses 
I  shall  here  refer  to  are  a  mixture  of  the  Denmark 
strain  with  trotting  stock. 

Of  the  Denmark  horse  there  has  been  started 
within  a  few  years  an  official  register.  This  horse 
has  great  merits  and  some  faults.  The  faults  of  the 
animal  are  due  to  the  fact  that  in  the  breeding  of 
him  the  Kentuckians  have  gone  in  for  beauty,  which 
they  have  believed  to  be  the  same  thing  as  smooth 
ness.  The  result  is  that  they  have  bred  the  withers 
off  of  many  of  the  horses.  I  know  that  they  will 
deny  this;  they  will  tell  you  that  the  withers  do  not 
show  because  Kentucky  horses  are  fat;  that  if  their 
horses  were  as  thin  as  horses  elsewhere  are  they 
would  show  the  same  frame.  I  cannot,  however, 
agree  with  this  opinion.  You  see  a  great  many 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       221 

withers  that  are  unquestionably  flat  and  thick.  With 
withers  of  this  kind  there  frequently  go  a  straight 
shoulder,  and  a  neck,  often  short,  that  runs  out  and 
then  up  like  that  of  a  goose.  With  the  straight 
shoulder  there  is  usually  combined  a  want  of  knee 
action.  The  beautiful  Black  Squirrel,  a  very  favor 
ite  Kentucky  stallion,  is  a  type  of  the  best  of  these 
horses.  Kentuckians  think  this  type  very  beautiful; 
they  hold,  indeed,  that  this  is  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  horses.  You  who  prefer  the  straight  lines  of  an 
English  hunter,  and  to  whom  that  softness,  that 
look  of  a  gelatine  roller,  which  many  Kentucky 
horses  have,  is  not  pleasant,  may  not  agree  with  them. 
But  you  have  not  seen  the  Kentucky  horse  under 
the  right  conditions.  When  the  animal  is  brought 
from  the  stall  into  the  paddock,  held  on  to  by  the 
colored  attendant,  soft  and  pampered  with  high 
feeding,  brilliant  with  the  best  of  care  and  grooming, 
and  rank  with  life  and  fine  blood,  it  is  impossible 
to  deny  that  he  is  handsome.  As  for  those  soft 
outlines  which  you  dislike,  a  thoroughbred  when 
fat  has  the  same. 

The  Kentuckians  have  bred  for  beauty  and  charm, 
and  they  have  got  them.  There  is  a  charm  about 
the  Kentucky  horse  that  perhaps  no  other  American 
horse  has.  No  other  animals  I  have  met  in  the 
country  exist  in  the  memory  with  quite  the  fascina 
tion  of  certain  horses  I  have  seen  in  Kentucky. 
There  was,  for  instance,  a  few  miles  from  Lexington, 
a  roan  gelding  that  had  this  fascination  to  a  high 
degree.  He  had  the  graceful  Kentucky  character 
istics — and  yet  with  a  difference.  His  beauty  ap 
peared  particularly  in  the  shape  of  the  rump  and  in 
the  carriage  of  the  tail.  There  was  an  exquisite 


222  A  Virginian  Village 

trick  in  the  conformation  of  the  quarters.  "  Charm 
ing  and  very  Kentucky,"  you  said,  as  you  looked  at 
them,  and  yet  you  felt  you  had  never  seen  quite 
that  before.  It  was  perhaps  a  bold  fight  nearer  the 
Kentucky  ideal  than  you  had  seen.  This  quality 
of  the  figure  was  certainly  due  to  an  infusion  of  the 
Denmark  grace.  The  tail  was  the  other  chief  beauty. 
There  was  an  airy  grace  in  the  carriage  of  it  which 
reminded  you  of  the  fortunate  work  of  some  archi 
tect  of  genius.  "What  have  you  done  to  him?" 
I  said,  referring  to  the  graceful  lightness  with  which 
the  tail  was  held.  "Nothing,"  said  the  farmer; 
"as  you  drive  out  of  the  gate  you  will  see  his  old 
dam  in  the  pasture  to  the  left,  and  you  will  see  that 
she  carries  just  the  same  tail  that  he  does."  I  did 
look  at  the  mare  on  the  way  out,  and  it  was  so. 
This  carriage  of  the  tail  is  also  a  Denmark  charac 
teristic.  It  is  said,  by  the  way,  that  this  tail  has  been 
transmitted  to  the  Kentucky  horses  from  the  Arab 
progenitor  of  the  English  thoroughbred,  and  that  the 
trait  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  hair  was  not  allowed 
to  grow  upon  the  tail  of  an  Arab  till  he  was  five  years 
old;  the  custom  of  keeping  the  tail  shaved,  observed 
through  many  generations,  made  it  thus  light  and 
easily  held  up. 

The  finest  animal  I  saw  in  the  State  was  in  Bourbon 
County  (Kentuckians  call  it  "Burbon").  One  rather 
chilly  April  afternoon,  at  the  Bourbon  House  in  Paris, 
Kentucky,  I  was  sitting  by  the  stove,  and  got  into 
conversation  with  a  modest  and  trustworthy  looking 
farmer.  He  said  he  lived  some  fifteen  miles  back  in 
the  country,  that  he  had  some  horses,  and  that  his 
neighbors  had  some  good  ones.  I  might,  he  said, 
drive  out  with  him  and  spend  the  night  and  see  his 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       223 

horses,  and  he  would  then  take  me  to  see  those  of  his 
neighbors.  A  Kentuckian  is  always  ready  to  do  this. 
This  accommodating  spirit  is  very  characteristic  of 
the  country.  I  have  been  in  regions  outside  of  Ken 
tucky  where  the  people  were  not  so  willing  to  give 
their  neighbors  a  chance  to  compete  with  them 
selves.  But  a  Kentuckian  who  has  shown  you  his 
horses  will  almost  certainly  say,  "If  you  don't  fancy 
what  I  have,  my  neighbor  has  a  brown  gelding  that 
is  very  nice;  and  Tom  Saunders,  who  lives  five  miles 
south  of  here,  has  a  very  good  mare."  Not  only 
will  he  do  this,  but  he  will  hitch  up  and  take  you  to 
see  these  horses.  On  the  road  he  will  think  of  others, 
or  will  learn  about  them.  A  neighbor  is  met  on  the 
turnpike  driving  a  pacing  stallion,  a  famous  per 
former,  of  which  you  are  given  an  interesting  account. 
Of  this  neighbor  he  asks,  "Has  Saunders  sold  his 
mare?"  "I  don't  know,"  is  the  answer;  "but  Jim 
Rogers  has  a  bay  that  is  mighty  near  a  good  actor." 
Then  a  detour  of  two  miles  to  the  left  to  see  Jim 
Rogers.  These  wanderings  are  very  pleasant. 

Accordingly,  I  got  with  my  new  acquaintance 
into  his  cart — one  of  those  two-wheeled  vehicles 
which  you  enter  from  behind,  and  which  are  much 
easier  to  get  into  than  out  of.  The  road  lay  through 
a  fine  region  of  rolling  pasture-lands,  and  among 
frequent  plantations  of  oak  and  hickory,  which  were 
also  pasture,  the  stems  of  the  leafless  trees  standing 
rather  sparsely  in  the  blue-grass,  which  had  got 
bright  with  the  first  really  effective  heats  of  April, 
and  spread  all  round  us  a  carpet  of  novel  verdure. 
Until  one  has  got  used  to  it,  being  driven  about  in 
this  way  aifects  one  with  a  torpor  which  is  not  disa 
greeable;  and  in  such  a  state  of  mind  I  heard  from  my 


224  A  Virginian  Village 

companion  a  series  of  discourses  upon  certain  horses 
and  horsemen  of  the  neighborhood.  Our  road 
brought  us  to  a  country  which  had  a  very  attractive 
air  of  quiet  and  seclusion,  and  of  separation  from  the 
noisy  places  of  the  world.  It  was  not  a  new  country; 
on  the  contrary,  it  was  an  old  country  and  village — 
an  old  neighborhood,  indeed,  but  a  remote  and 
peaceful  one.  At  the  post-office  I  was  introduced 
to  a  young  man  who  told  me  that  he  had  a  good 
horse.  As  I  was  going  to  return  to  Paris  by  the  stage 
the  next  morning,  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  meet 
me  with  the  horse  at  a  certain  point  on  the  road. 

The  next  morning  at  seven  the  stage  started — the 
day  very  sunshiny,  and  the  air  fresh  and  balmy. 
(By  the  way,  how  easy  it  is  to  get  up  early  if  other 
people  do,  and  what  an  amount  of  freshness  there  is 
in  bright  sunlight,  the  fragrant  air,  and  the  long 
shadows!  Thus  half  past  six  is  the  common  hour 
for  breakfast  at  taverns  in  Kentucky,  and  a  man 
who  has  had  this  meal  in  New  York  at  eight  or  nine 
will  find  himself  in  Kentucky  coming  down  at  6.30 
and  complaining  that  breakfast  is  late;  it  takes  less 
than  a  week  to  effect  this  transformation.)  On  this 
morning  I  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  stage.  On 
the  way  I  met  children  going  to  school,  the  boys  and 
girls  often  riding  the  Shetland  ponies  which  in  these 
parts  are  kept  to  carry  the  children  to  school.  They 
appeared  a  singularly  thriving,  healthy,  and  happy 
young  population.  At  the  bottom  of  a  little  green 
glade  I  met  a  boy  on  one  of  these  ponies,  with  his 
slate  and  books  swung  over  his  shoulder  by  a  strap 
— a  very  sturdy  figure  of  a  boy.  With  his  ruddy  and 
jolly  countenance,  I  thought  he  could  give  points  to 
the  "shining  morning  face"  of  the  poet  which  we  all 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       225 

remember.  That  boy  crept  "unwillingly  "  to  school; 
but  this  one  forged  ahead  on  his  vigorous  little 
climber  of  hills  as  if  he  were  eager  to  get  there  and 
was  expecting  a  lot  of  fun,  greeting  me  as  he  passed 
with  a  shout  of  irrepressible  joviality.  The  driver 
presently  stopped  at  a  cross-roads,  saying,  "Here's 
where  Mr.  Jones  was  to  meet  you  with  his  horse." 
Just  at  that  moment  there  appeared  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  fifty  yards  away,  what  seemed  to  me  the 
most  beautiful  horse  I  had  ever  seen.  The  rider  was 
trying  to  get  him  past  a  pile  of  stones,  and  the  ani 
mated  attitude  of  the  horse,  as  he  appeared  on  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  showed  off  his  figure  to  advantage. 
He  was  in  a  moment  by  the  side  of  the  stage,  and 
grew  finer  the  more  he  was  looked  at.  If  he  had  a 
fault  it  was  in  the  color,  which  was  a  strawberry 
roan;  and  yet  this  rather  florid  and  decorative  hue 
seemed  to  suit  the  animal's  splendor  of  form.  You 
saw  at  once  a  fine  eye,  a  mettlesome  attitude,  very 
high-strung  and  sensitive  nerves,  and  a  look  of  in 
vincible  hauteur,  which  impressed  you  with  a  sense 
that  it  was  an  indignity  to  bridle  and  saddle  such  a 
creature.  He  was  about  the  right  height  and  weight. 
The  graceful  form  was  associated  with  plenty  of 
strength  and  substance — very  round  and  smooth, 
but  without  the  extreme  Kentucky  softness.  When 
he  moved  I  thought  him  still  more  beautiful,  his 
action  was  so  stately  and  splendid — no  educated 
action,  but  the  real  thing.  He  had  luckily  been 
taught  no  Kentucky  gaits.  I  got  on  him  and  put 
him  into  a  slow  trot,  when  my  delight  was  greater 
than  ever.  His  step  was  very  square  and  deliberate, 
and  he  moved  with  a  pomp  and  dignity  which  had  a 
most  lively  effect  upon  the  mind.  The  beautiful 


226  A  Virginian  Village 

head  I  saw  before  me  and  its  spirited  carriage  were 
no  doubt  part  of  the  effect.  This  horse  was  after 
wards  brought  to  New  York  and  took  a  prize  at  the 
Horse  Show.  When  I  saw  him  there  he  had  changed 
somewhat  in  outline,  as  will  sometimes  happen  at 
his  age  (he  was  four  when  I  saw  him  in  Kentucky). 
He  was  still  fine,  of  course,  but  had  lost  something  of 
the  sumptuous  fulness  which  he  had  when  I  first 
looked  at  him.  That  may  have  been  because  he  was 
not  in  his  finest  form.  Then  it  should  be  said  that 
I  did  not  see  him  in  New  York  with  the  accompani 
ments  of  early  morning  balm  and  sunlight  and  the 
first  awakening  of  the  shrubbery  in  the  springtime — 
conditions  which  will  have  their  influence  upon  the 
most  sober  judgment.  He  fetched  a  great  price,  and 
the  purchaser  cut  off  his  tail.  I  have  not  time  now 
to  speak  of  the  subject  of  long  and  short  tails;  but 
it  will  be  admitted,  even  by  those  who  dock  cobs 
and  hackneys,  that  the  horse  of  poetry — such  a 
horse  as  this,  for  instance,  which,  it  seemed  to  me, 
might  have  been  some  Thessalian  courser  of  the 
Vale  of  Tempe — should  not  have  a  docked  tail. 

There  are  certain  horses  in  Kentucky  that  are  as 
well  known  to  the  community  as  the  public  men  of 
the  State.  The  qualities  of  a  bay  horse  in  Versailles, 
of  which  I  saw  a  good  deal,  were  known  far  and  wide. 
When  they  speak  in  Kentucky  of  the  "qualities" 
of  a  horse,  they  mean  good  temper,  kindness,  and  the 
like.  This  horse  had  had  the  advantage  of  a  good 
education.  There  is  a  grocer  in  that  pretty  little 
town  who  has  great  skill  in  training  horses,  who 
makes  a  very  careful  selection  of  the  horses  he  is  to 
educate,  has  never  more  than  two  at  a  time,  and  on 
these  bestows  an  infinity  of  pains.  These  horses  he 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       227 

succeeds  in  making  very  human.  The  first  thing  I 
heard  of  the  little  bay  that  attracted  me  was  that  he 
would  come  upstairs  and  look  out  of  the  window. 
This  horse  had  four  white  stockings  up  to  his  knees, 
which  will  prejudice  him  with  some  persons;  but 
these  stockings  added  an  inch  to  his  apparent  height, 
and  his  spirited  carriage  of  the  head  gave  him  another 
inch.  He  had  been  taught  all  the  gaits;  but  this 
had  been  done  without  in  the  least  spoiling  the 
squareness  of  his  trot.  I  sent  him  to  a  friend  in  New 
York.  In  the  trot  his  feet  strike  the  ground  in  per 
fect  time  and  with  steps  like  clockwork;  his  move 
ment  is  like  the  throbbing  of  a  rich  and  strong  heart; 
as  you  rise  and  fall  it  warms  the  blood  with  a  delight 
ful  glow.  You  really  share  his  youth  and  life.  There 
is,  indeed,  when  you  are  mounted  upon  a  horse  that 
has  vitality  and  heat  enough  for  himself  and  you  too, 
a  kind  of  transfusion  of  blood — a  truth  which  has 
perhaps  afforded  the  basis  for  the  beautiful  idea  of 
the  centaur.  This  bay  came  from  Woodford  County, 
of  which  Versailles  is  the  county-seat,  and  which  is  a 
home  of  good  horses.  Perhaps  no  part  of  the  State 
has  the  characteristic  Kentucky  charms  and  beauties 
to  quite  the  same  degree  as  Woodford  County.  At 
a  delightful  house  near  Versailles  where  I  stayed  my 
hostess  told  me  that  Henry  Clay  used  often  to  visit 
them,  and  that  he  used  to  say  that  if  the  blue-grass 
region  of  Kentucky  was  the  garden  spot  of  the 
world,  Woodford  County  was  the  asparagus-bed  of 
this  garden.  So  when  later  I  met  a  young  lady  in 
Lexington  and  asked  her  where  she  was  from  and  she 
answered: — "I'm  from  the  asparagus-bed,"  I  knew 
what  she  meant. 
A  word  may  be  said  upon  the  color  of  Kentucky 


228  A  Virginian  Village 

horses.  The  eye  is  much  impressed  with  the  preva 
lence  of  bay  in  that  region.  There  has  been  a  good 
deal  of  breeding  for  it.  I  think  there  is  too  much 
bay;  in  time  one  gets  rather  tired  of  it.  But  you  will 
see  now  and  then,  on  some  animal  otherwise  very 
fine,  a  shade  of  bay  which  strikes  you  as  not  at  all 
the  same  thing  as  the  tame  hue  so  common  in  the 
country — a  solid  mass  of  deep  and  glorious  red,  worn 
usually  by  some  large  animal  that  can  show  a  lot  of 
it.  You  say,  "This  is  not  a  bay  horse;  I  never  saw 
this  before."  The  animal  is  best  seen  in  the  stable- 
yard  on  a  spring  morning,  when  the  sun  with  his 
creative  heat  has  warmed  him  and  the  stable-boys 
and  the  fleas  into  new  life.  And  he  should  be  un 
dipped.  The  long  fresh  coat  of  a  deep  wine-color 
then  looks  like  some  rich  fur.  There  are  a  good 
many  black  horses.  Black,  they  say,  is  not  a  color 
at  all.  That  may  be  the  view  of  science,  but  it  is 
not  the  testimony  of  the  eye.  To  the  eye  no  bay 
horse  is  so  red  nor  white  horse  so  white  as  a  black 
horse  is  black.  This  is  particularly  so  if  you  get  him 
of  that  dull  charcoal,  so  rich  and  sooty,  from  which 
every  reflection  or  suggestion  of  light  has  been  lost, 
and  which  is  indeed  the  color  of  primeval  blackness. 
The  various  shades  of  chestnut  exist  there  in  about 
the  same  proportions  as  elsewhere.  But  of  gray,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  color  which  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say  I  am  fond  of,  you  see  perhaps  less  in  Kentucky 
than  elsewhere.  An  effort  has  been  made  by  breeders 
to  avoid  it.  I  was  told  some  curious  things  about 
gray  horses  by  Major  T—  — ,  an  old  gentleman  who  is 
one  of  the  first  breeders  of  thoroughbreds  in  the 
State.  He  thinks  the  time  is  coming  when  there  will 
be  no  more  gray  horses  left  in  the  world.  He  says 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       229 

that  you  can  get  a  bay,  black,  or  chestnut  from  par 
ents  of  any  color,  but  that  a  gray  colt  must  always 
have  a  gray  sire  or  dam.  He  argues  that  it  follows 
that  gray,  once  lost,  could  never  be  regained.  It  is 
true,  I  believe,  that  among  thoroughbreds  gray  has 
been  nearly  bred  out.  The  major's  forecast  impressed 
me  as  a  sad  one. 

Both  the  bay  and  the  strawberry  roan  were  in 
part  trotting-bred  horses.  I  may  here  say  that  there 
is  more  beauty  than  formerly  among  Kentucky 
trotters  and  more  variety.  You  see  trotters  of  all 
kinds.  There  are  trotters  of  a  very  thoroughbred 
look.  There  are  also,  as  offshoots  of  this  stock, 
varieties  of  a  kind  you  do  not  expect  to  find  in  Ken 
tucky.  I  saw,  for  instance,  in  Lexington,  an  admira 
ble  pattern  of  a  hunter.  Being  a  few  weeks  after 
wards  in  the  southern  part  of  the  State,  I  chanced 
to  meet  the  people  who  had  raised  him,  and  they 
told  me  that  he  was  of  nearly  pure  trotting  blood. 
There  are  other  unexpected  types  to  be  met  with. 
You  do  not,  for  instance,  expect  to  find  cobs  in  Ken 
tucky;  but  as  good  patterns  of  these  scarce  animals 
are  to  be  found  there  as  anywhere,  although  of  course 
there  are  not  so  many  of  them  as  there  are  in  Canada 
and  the  West.  And  when  you  do  find  a  cob  in  Ken 
tucky,  you  are  apt  to  find  along  with  him  that  speed 
and  "get-away"  which  is  a  Kentucky  virtue,  and 
which  is  so  hard  to  find  in  animals  of  this  class,  and 
without  which  no  perfection  of  shape  is  of  much 
account.  The  Kentucky  cobs  are  mostly  of  trotting 
blood.  It  is  from  these  varieties  of  the  improved 
trotter  that  many  of  the  best  Kentucky  saddle-horses 
come,  and  trotting  blood  enters  largely  into  nearly 
all  of  them. 


230  A  Virginian  Village 

One  great  advantage  of  this  infusion  of  trotting 
blood  is  that  it  gives  manners  and  sweetness  of 
temper,  that  most  necessary  of  all  qualities  in  a 
saddle-horse.  There  is  no  doubt  of  the  superior 
docility  and  companionability  of  the  trotter.  One 
chief  reason  for  this  is,  I  suppose,  that  trotters  are 
more  handled  than  other  horses.  It  is  association 
with  man  that  gives  a  horse  that  humanized  expres 
sion,  such  as  a  good  dog  has;  and  for  this  reason  you 
are  especially  apt  to  find  it  in  trotters.  There  are 
certain  characteristics,  I  may  add,  which  the  human 
horses  are  apt  to  have.  A  horse  with  this  sort  of  dis 
position,  I  have  observed,  is  likely  to  show  in  his  face 
an  expression  of  melancholy;  and  in  high-bred  horses 
this  expression  becomes  very  refined.  I  think  you 
will  also  feel,  when  you  come  to  know  such  a  horse 
well,  that  his  mind  is  very  transparent,  is  less  opaque 
than  that  of  other  horses. 

Perhaps  I  cannot  better  illustrate  what  has  been 
said  about  recent  tendencies  and  results  in  breeding 
horses  in  Kentucky  than  by  a  reference  to  Lou  Chief, 
in  recent  years  perhaps  the  most  celebrated  Kentucky 
horse  of  her  class.  She  is  of  mixed  saddle  and  trotting 
blood,  her  sire  being  Harrison  Chief,  and  her  dam  a 
Denmark  horse.  She  does  all  the  gaits  perfectly. 
She  will  rack  in  one  direction,  and  will  turn  round  and 
trot  in  the  other  as  square  as  can  be.  She  has  trotted 
in  2.36.  She  has  a  fine  and  high  action.  I  have  seen 
her  in  the  Kentucky  pasture,  stepping  round  the 
meadow  with  a  grand,  elastic  movement,  head  up 
and  mane  waving  to  the  wind.  As  is  usual  with  the 
modern  Kentucky  animal,  she  is  a  combination  horse, 
and  is  as  fine  in  harness  as  under  the  saddle.  She  is 
a  very  interesting  horse  to  drive.  The  driver  has  this 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       23 1 

advantage  over  the  rider:  if  he  does  not  feel  the 
horse  as  much,  he  sees  him  more.  If  you  are  not  in 
the  mood  for  the  saddle,  or  do  not  feel  strong  enough 
for  it,  if  you  are  in  a  state  of  mind  receptive  rather 
than  active,  it  is  a  real  pleasure,  of  the  passive  kind, 
to  hold  the  reins  behind  such  a  horse  as  Lou  Chief — 
to  mark  the  fine  action  and  the  abundant  power  of 
the  animal,  to  sit  with  your  eye  riveted  upon  the  wide 
flat  loin,  which,  with  its  calm  strength,  is  the  image 
of  all  that  you  at  such  a  moment  feel  yourself  not  to 
be.  Lou  Chief  has  inherited  from  her  sire  that 
measured  movement,  like  clockwork,  which  belongs 
to  our  trotters — the  quarters  carried  steadily,  the 
stroke  of  the  hind  feet  telling  off  spaces  of  even 
length  with  a  mechanical  regularity  which  suggests 
that  this  sustained  action  need  not  come  to  an  end 
at  all.  Lou  Chief  took  the  first  prize  in  her  class  at 
the  New  York  Horse  Show.  She  had  before  this 
brought  $2500  in  Kentucky,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  she  has  a  Roman  nose  and  scarcely  a  first- 
rate  tail — a  good  price  for  a  horse  to  fetch  without 
regard  to  pedigree  or  record,  but  simply  on  what  she 
could  look  and  "do" — to  use  this  little  verb  in  its 
peculiar  Kentucky  signification.  I  say  she  has  not 
a  first-rate  tail.  Her  tail  has  been  nicked,  and  al 
though  you  may  get  the  right  kind  of  an  arch  by  that 
treatment,  a  nicked  tail  has  never,  I  think,  quite 
that  aerial  grace  to  be  noticed  in  such  a  miracle  of 
nature's  architecture  as  the  tail  of  the  incomparable 
roan  gelding  before  mentioned.  The  tail,  however, 
has  since  been  taken  off.  That  she  should  have 
fetched  such  a  price  in  spite  of  these  disadvantages 
shows  that  a  fine  horse  is  still  a  valuable  piece  of 
property.  It  takes  but  little  acquaintance  with  the 


232  A  Virginian  Village 

regions  in  which  horses  are  bred  to  convince  one  that 
this  is  so.  From  my  travels  in  Kentucky,  Virginia, 
Canada,  and  other  horse-growing  countries,  I  am  well 
aware  that  it  is  much  more  difficult  to  find  good 
horses  than  it  is  to  get  purchasers  for  them  after 
they  have  been  found. 

But  there  is  a  great  deal  in  this  country  besides 
the  horses.  There  is  no  country  that  I  know  that  has 
more  marked  and  special  characteristics  than  Ken 
tucky.  This  is  certainly  true  of  scenery.  The  local 
literary  men  speak  of  it  as  "fat,"  a  word  that  is 
perfectly  accurate;  I  have  never  seen  a  country  that 
gave  such  an  impression  of  fatness.  The  groves, 
bare  of  undergrowth,  standing  here  and  there  in  the 
broad  landscapes  are  noble  and  stately,  and  the 
spacious  pastures  of  the  open  country  have  a  fertile 
and  propitious  look  to  be  seen  scarcely  anywhere 
else.  In  the  early  spring  the  black  trunks  of  the 
leafless  trees,  standing  here  and  there  in  the  undulat 
ing  meadows,  look  like  truffles  stuck  into  the  bosom 
of  a  pudding.  And  when,  towards  the  end  of  June, 
the  stain  upon  the  blue-grass  is  deepest  and  the 
grain  fields  shine  with  a  brighter  and  paler  verdure, 
how  glad  is  the  thank  offering  of  the  earth's  first 
fruits  lifted  at  noonday  to  the  blue  sky,  in  which 
there  hangs,  piled  high  and  perfectly  motionless,  one 
white  cumulus  cloud. 

I  have  said  enough  about  the  horses.  The  men 
and  women  share  the  size  and  bone  which  the  blue- 
grass  and  limestone  give  the  horses,  and  they  have 
the  good  looks  which  an  outdoor  life  confers.  There 
was  old  Bayless,  of  Bourbon,  a  powerful  figure  of  a 
man;  what  a  chest  and  shoulders  he  had,  and  what 
rugged  health  and  what  sense  and  humor  and  what 


Types  of  Kentucky  Saddle-Horses       233 

an  expression  of  mingled  kindness  and  shrewdness 
there  was  in  the  strongly  marked  features.  And 
there  was  young  Clay,  also  of  Bourbon,  his  cheek 
covered  with  the  light  down  of  early  manhood  and 
colored  with  the  mixed  blue  and  red  of  daily  contact 
with  the  open  air — the  natural  result  of  a  life  with 
horses — this  hue  now  and  then  heightened  with  a 
sensitive  shyness  and  with  the  unconscious  dignity 
of  a  gentleman.  These  men  seemed  to  me  worthy 
descendants  of  the  heroes  of  the  "dark  and  bloody 
ground."  It  was  significant  and  natural,  by  the  way, 
that  the  Indians  should  have  made  a  fight  for  this 
fine  country,  such  as  they  perhaps  made  for  no  other. 


TEXAN  SCENERY 

ON  the  cold  spring  morning  on  which,  years 
ago,  I  started  by  stage  from  Abilene  to  San 
Angelo,  it  had  been  raining  all  night.  One  of  the 
fierce  storms  peculiar  to  those  latitudes  had  at 
tacked  the  country,  and  left  it  in  a  damaged  con 
dition.  A  chill  and  mournful  wind,  which  fortunately 
was  on  our  backs  and  not  in  our  faces,  was  blowing 
from  the  north.  The  stage  had  a  high  seat  outside 
for  the  driver,  which  on  this  occasion  I  did  not  ven 
ture  to  share  with  him.  Inside  it  was  a  kind  of 
covered  carryall,  with  two  seats  facing  each  other, 
and  had,  for  curtains,  flaps  which  could  be  rolled  up 
in  good  weather,  but  were  of  course  now  down.  I 
was  the  only  occupant,  although  I  should  rather  have 
liked  a  passenger  or  two,  my  sense  of  the  loneliness 
of  the  journey  being  increased  by  the  fact  that  the 
stage  had  been  robbed  some  seven  times  within  the 
past  two  months.  I  half  rolled  up  one  of  the  blinds 
so  that  I  could  see  out.  The  journey  got  more  and 
more  monotonous  as  the  stage  advanced.  The  cold 
wind  that  blew  from  the  north  was  monotonous,  as 
was  the  leaden  sky  which  everywhere  overhung  the 
vast  landscape.  The  country  was  slightly  rolling, 
and  I  think  you  get  an  impression  of  greater  vastness 
from  a  slightly  rolling  than  from  a  perfectly  flat 
country.  The  wide  tops  of  the  knolls,  to  which  the 
immense  pastures  ascend  with  a  slight  swell  and  a 
long,  resistless  sweep  like  that  of  the  sea,  are  points 
by  which  to  measure  the  country.  The  few  horses 


Texan  Scenery  235 

and  cattle  which  you  see  grazing  far  and  near  (the 
distant  ones,  for  some  reason,  appear  to  be  of  unusual 
height)  serve  the  same  purpose.  The  characteristics 
of  the  scenery  are  monotonous.  You  pass  wide 
spaces  in  which  there  is  scarcely  anything  but  grass 
and  cactus.  The  only  tree  is  the  mesquite  which  is, 
to  speak  roughly,  about  as  big  as  a  large  peach-tree. 
You  pass  miles  and  miles  of  these,  every  sixth  or 
seventh  tree  containing  among  its  branches  a  dark- 
green  sphere  of  mistletoe  about  a  foot  in  diameter. 
The  pastures,  filled  with  the  mesquite-trees,  look  not 
unlike  peach-orchards.  The  country  thus  has  an 
appearance  of  cultivation,  and  this  fact,  taken  to 
gether  with  your  knowledge  that  it  lies  just  as  it  has 
done  for  thousands  of  years,  heightens  your  sense  of 
its  aboriginal  wildness. 

There  is  infinite  monotony  in  the  profusion  of 
yellow,  pink,  and  blue  flowers  which  underlie  the 
mesquites,  and  which  tinge  the  prairies  to  their  re 
motest  limits.  The  odor  of  these  flowers  is  sweet 
but  powerful,  and  the  monotony  of  the  smell  is  added 
to  that  of  the  wind  and  the  sky,  and  the  endless 
flowers,  and  the  other  incessantly  recurring  pecu 
liarities  of  the  face  of  nature.  The  smell  soon  be 
comes  somewhat  nauseating,  although  it  is  perhaps 
rather  the  constancy  of  the  odor  than  its  potency 
which  affects  you.  Everything  else  is  equally  in 
cessant.  It  seems  to  be  the  same  killdee,  with  the 
same  cry,  which  alights  upon  the  same  cactus,  or 
by  the  side  of  a  wet  gully  or  pathway  of  stones  where 
a  stream  has  been  flowing.  It  is  the  same  scissor- 
bird  which,  with  the  two  long  feathers  of  its  tail, 
flutters  before  you  and  settles  downward  with  a 
weak,  uncertain  movement.  But  the  greatest  im- 


236  A  Virginian  Village 

pression  of  monotony  you  receive  from  the  prairie- 
dogs.  The  towns  of  these  creatures  line  your  road, 
with  very  short  intervals,  all  day  long.  They  bark 
from  the  edges  of  their  holes  in  just  the  same  way, 
and  sit  erect  with  just  the  same  tricks  of  manner,  and 
wiggle  their  tails  in  just  the  same  way,  communicat 
ing  thereto  a  shiver  of  great  rapidity,  and  flop  down 
into  their  holes  at  your  approach  with  the  same 
rudeness  and  abruptness.  They  did  this  all  the  way 
through  Taylor  and  Runnels  counties.  These  ani 
mals  have  a  strong  effect  upon  you.  You  are  alone 
and  your  mind  is  in  a  very  susceptible  condition. 
Your  imagination  has  been  taken  possession  of  by 
the  wind  and  sky,  and  the  eternal  flower-tinted 
waste,  and  the  universal  and  nauseating  perfumes. 
On  top  of  these  come  the  rude  and  monotonous 
manners  of  the  prairie-dogs.  They  are  very  clannish 
and  exclusive  things.  They  seem  to  be  saying  to 
you  that  you  may  be  all  very  well  where  you  come 
from,  but  that  you  have  no  kind  of  status  in  a  prairie- 
dog  town,  and  are  not  wanted  there.  You  see  them 
a  few  hundred  feet  ahead  of  you,  chasing  one  another 
about  with  the  familiarity  of  intimate  acquaintance. 
But  you  are  no  sooner  caught  sight  of  than  each  flies 
to  his  hole,  and  sits  there  upon  his  hind  legs,  wig 
gling  his  tail,  and  uttering  a  bark  which  seems  to 
say:  "Who  is  this?  Something  very  suspicious,  no 
doubt."  And  down  he  flops.  This  iteration  and 
identity  of  sentiment  and  behavior  soon  begins  to 
tell  upon  you.  These  ten  hours  of  incessant  ex- 
clusiveness  all  about  you  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
the  journeying  through  I  know  not  how  many 
leagues  of  insult  and  suspicion, — which,  by  the  way, 
you  must  support  alone, — in  time  powerfully  affect 


Texan  Scenery  237 

your  cheerfulness  and  self-esteem,  and  you  sink  back 
ward  in  a  profound  dejection. 

As  the  afternoon  advanced,  the  sky  grew  brighter, 
and  by  and  by  the  sun  appeared,  and  I  left  the  in 
side  of  the  stage,  and,  for  company  and  a  better  view, 
got  up  with  the  driver.  As  you  approach  the  Colo 
rado  River,  you  pass  a  great  extent  of  country  which 
is  entirely  bare  of  trees.  A  peculiarity  of  travel 
in  Texas,  by  the  way,  is  that  there  are  no  roads,  only 
ruts  and  tracks  which  have  been  made  in  previous 
trips.  To  these  the  driver  pays  no  attention.  The 
road  is  anywhere  he  chooses  to  drive,  the  four  horses, 
however,  always  going  at  a  good  trot.  The  solitary 
vehicle  traversed  the  immense  plain  like  a  ship  at 
sea.  The  scene  had  now  become  much  more  cheer 
ful,  but  was  still  very  vast  and  solemn.  We  moved 
for  some  hours  through  a  region  having  no  other 
covering  than  the  endless  flower-embroidered  grasses, 
much  overrun  by  growths  of  no  greater  height  than 
the  cactus,  and  populous  with  many  forms  of  animal 
life.  At  the  hour  when  the  day  was  just  approaching 
its  conclusion,  an  old  gray  fox,  much  astonished  and 
discomposed  by  our  advent,  ran  out  of  a  rut  before 
us,  and,  going  some  thirty  yards  to  our  right,  stood 
between  us  and  the  sun,  which  just  rested  on  the 
rim  of  the  horizon,  looking  at  us,  having  upon  his 
features  an  expression  of  wild  and  dull  wonder.  The 
poets  have  made  the  fox  and  the  fox's  den  the  sym 
bol  of  desolation.  As  the  body  of  this  animal  was 
projected  against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun, 
with  whose  lonely  effulgence  the  vast  tinted  and  per 
fumed  scene  was  brightened,  he  looked  indeed  the 
type  of  solitude. 

Texas  was  unlike  what  I  had  expected.     I  had  a 


238  A  Virginian  Village 

notion  of  a  flat  plain  covered  in  May  with  wild 
flowers;  but  I  had  not  at  all  apprehended  the  realities 
of  the  Texan  landscape.  I  did  not  see  the  cactus  or 
the  interminable  mesquites  looking  like  orchards.  I 
knew  there  were  flowers,  but  I  did  not  see  the  end 
less  stretches  of  blue  and  yellow,  or  smell  the  univer 
sal  odors  which  would  be  too  powerful  if  they  were 
not  so  essential  to  the  country  and  so  impossible 
to  escape.  There  are  a  good  many  hills.  It  is  true 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  flat  country  in  Texas, 
but  there  is  also  a  great  deal  of  rolling  and  broken 
country.  Then,  there  is  also  much  pretty  scenery. 
Tom  Green  and  Concho  counties  are  full  of  charm 
ing  scenery.  There  are  no  forests,  it  is  true.  Beyond 
the  mesquites  which  cover  the  country,  there  are  only 
the  dark-green  clumps  of  live-oaks  and  pecans  scat 
tered  about  at  wide  intervals. 

But  the  country  has  its  own  indigenous  beauties. 
Many  of  the  streams  are  clear.  The  Brazos  and 
Trinity  are  muddy  rivers,  but  the  Concho  is  as  clear 
as  a  mountain  brook.  The  landscape  becomes  gay 
and  brilliant,  as  the  afternoon  advances  and  a  bold 
and  ample  light  is  shed  over  it  and  the  profuse 
grasses  are  swept  by  the  winds  of  May.  The  ver 
dure  with  which  the  late  spring  enriches  the  horizon 
rests  upon  it  like  a  mirage.  This  verdure  is  peculiar. 
It  is  of  a  bright  emerald  hue,  and  has  a  sheen  upon 
it  which  is  like  that  upon  the  rind  of  green  fruit, 
but  much  stronger.  This  appearance  is  very  rank, 
and  looks  as  though  it  would  come  off  on  your  hands. 
Into  this  the  colors  of  the  sunset  infuse  many  fresh 
and  delicate  stains.  I  have  never  seen  a  country 
upon  which  the  sunset  has  a  more  softening  and 
transforming  effect  than  it  has  upon  this. 


Texan  Scenery  239 

These  remarks  relate  only  to  the  earth;  you  have 
not  as  yet  looked  above  you.  Owing,  perhaps,  to 
the  absence  of  trees  or  of  tall  objects  of  any  kind, 
the  sky  seems  very  high  and  remote.  During  the 
day's  closing  moments  the  heavens  have  been  pre 
paring  for  the  reception  of  the  stars,  and  have  taken 
on  a  soft,  deep  bloom  like  that  of  purple  flowers. 
No  light  has  yet  appeared  in  those  lofty  spaces,  but 
while  you  have  not  been  looking,  a  star  has  wan 
dered  hither  with  timid  and  hesitating  step,  and 
taken  its  modest  station  in  the  spotless  and  pro 
foundly  purple  expanse.  Soon  a  bolder  and  a  larger 
one,  remote  from  the  first,  hangs,  a  yellow  spot, 
above  the  scene,  and  contributes  its  golden  infusion 
to  the  vast  chromatic  pageant.  Now  for  some  mo 
ments  the  face  of  nature  is  gentle  and  pensive. 
Gilded  by  his  attendant  planet,  the  Concho  flows 
with  a  perfectly  clear  current,  between  ramparts  as 
smooth  and  sedately  verdant  as  those  of  the  Thames. 
Faster  and  faster  the  stars  are  projected  from  their 
elastic  depths,  the  glint  of  their  fine  points  at  first 
faint  and  pale,  but  strengthening  with  approaching 
darkness.  Now  go  within  doors  for  an  hour,  and  re 
turn,  and  you  are  astonished  at  the  thick  array  of 
bright  objects  that  crowd  and  jostle  each  other  in 
the  wide  domain  on  high.  You  look  upward,  and  be 
hold  them  where  they  glow  with  ever-increasing  en 
ergy,  and  shine  with  simple  and  vainglorious  magnifi 
cence,  and  silently  triumph  with  an  ostentation  and 
a  splendor  of  self-assertion  unknown  elsewhere.  The 
stars  occupy  a  larger  place  in  the  mind  of  the  young 
Texan  than  in  yours  or  mine.  He  views  nightly 
the  exalted  throng,  and  remembers  that  the  same 
glittering  roof  covers  himself  and  distant  friends. 


240  A  Virginian  Village 

From  the  day  of  your  arrival  in  Texas  until  you 
leave,  you  are  very  close  to  nature.  You  have  had 
a  good  night's  rest,  and  have  got  rid  of  the  motion 
of  the  cars,  when  a  journey  is  proposed  to  a  ranch 
fifteen  miles  away.  The  object  of  the  expedition  is 
a  business  one,  but  nevertheless  guns  are  put  in  the 
wagon,  in  the  certainty  of  plenty  of  shooting.  The 
Texan  does  not  ride  when  he  can  drive,  and  they  all 
get  into  a  covered  wagon.  You  yourself,  however, 
if  you  prefer  it,  are  given  a  saddle-pony.  It  is  one 
of  the  earliest  of  the  really  warm  days  of  the  season, 
and  the  spring  is  in  full  tide.  The  sun  is  strong, 
but  there  is  wonderful  life  and  freshness  in  the  air. 
After  an  hour  or  two  the  backs  of  your  hands  begin 
to  blacken.  You  have  your  first  elate  sense  that 
you  have  really  found  the  wilderness,  when  a  hawk — 
not  the  bird  known  to  us  in  the  East,  but  a  bulky 
creature — rises  from  her  nest  on  a  near  mesquite,  and 
urges  her  level  flight  along  the  ground  with  a  heavy 
motion  of  the  wing.  Presently  a  long-legged  and 
long-eared  animal  goes  springing  by,  which  at  first 
you  do  not  know  what  to  make  of,  but  which  you 
discover  to  be  the  jack-rabbit.  Somebody  shoots, 
and  it  turns  several  somersaults,  and  lies  upon  its 
side,  its  large  pop-eye  expressing  the  acutest  pain, 
and  its  body  struggling  and  bleeding  copiously,  like 
some  wild,  coarse  weed  which  has  been  cut  asunder 
and  from  which  the  red  sap  is  flowing.  The  white 
tufts  of  little  cottontails  are  flashing  in  every  direc 
tion,  and  flocks  of  plovers  settle  all  about  you.  You 
are  surprised  at  the  amount  of  live  things  there  are 
everywhere.  Animal  life  exists  on  these  prairies 
with  an  almost  metropolitan  profusion.  The  prairie 
is  the  city  of  the  jack-rabbit. 


Texan  Scenery  241 

Old  soldiers  who  went  through  Texas  to  Mexico 
fifty  years  ago,  at  the  time  of  the  war,  have  told  me 
how  great  this  profusion  was  then.  The  antelope 
even,  unused  to  men,  and  expecting  no  harm,  would 
not  run  from  them.  There  is  not  now,  of  course,  the 
quantity  of  wild  life  there  was  at  that  time.  But 
there  is  a  great  deal  left,  and  the  animals  of  civilized 
communities,  cattle,  sheep,  and  horses,  are  every 
where.  The  Texan  bull  is  perhaps  the  most  digni 
fied  occupant  of  the  prairie.  He  does  not  turn  and 
run  as  you  approach,  as  the  steers,  calves,  and  cows 
do,  but  stands  there,  knee-deep  in  the  long  grass 
that  borders  the  watercourses,  composed  and  un- 
regardful  of  you;  authority  and  majestic  tyranny 
graven  deeply  in  the  wrinkles  of  his  grand  head. 
There  is  a  sad  fate  in  reserve  for  this  fine  creature. 
When  he  is  old  and  feeble,  the  young  bulls  will  get 
round  him  and  gore  him  to  death.  That  struggle 
for  existence  which  with  human  beings  is  softened, 
in  appearance  at  least,  he  must  encounter  in  its 
simple  and  original  form.  There  are,  in  his  case, 
none  of  those  ineffectual  but  well-intended  conso 
lations  which  the  young  address  to  the  old:  "Cheer 
up,  my  dear  fellow;  you're  in  the  heyday  of  your 
youth  and  beauty."  It  is  not  thus  the  young  bulls 
comport  themselves  to  the  old  one.  He  sees  round 
him  in  a  circle  their  utterly  candid  and  hateful  faces, 
as,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  rage,  and  broken  pride,  he 
sinks  amid  the  solitude  of  the  prairie. 

On  the  morning  of  the  round-up,  everybody  was 
in  the  saddle  by  five  o'clock,  and  the  bunches  of 
cattle  were  soon  in  motion.  The  proprietor  and  half 
a  dozen  boys  rode  in  the  rear  and  on  the  sides.  I 
was  allowed  to  try  my  skill  in  an  occasional  chase 


242  A  Virginian  Village 

after  a  stray  calf.  But  the  scene  was  so  charming 
that  one  did  not  need  this  excitement.  The  morning 
air  of  that  mountain  plain  of  western  Texas  is  fresh 
and  sweet.  The  country  is  here  a  table-land  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  We  soon  encountered 
many  other  herds,  which  were  on  their  way  to  the 
common  centre,  where  each  ranchman  of  the  neigh 
borhood  was  to  "cut  out,"  or  select,  his  own  cattle 
by  the  brand.  Before  long,  in  all  directions,  cattle 
appeared.  They  were  moving,  under  a  sky  of  per 
fect  blue,  through  a  boundless  plain  of  bright  ver 
dure,  variegated  by  the  narrow  lines  of  the  darker 
timber  which  marked  the  concealed  watercourses, 
their  speckled  backs,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, — 
red,  white,  black,  and  brown, — shining  in  the  sun. 
The  herds,  not  in  thick  masses,  but  loose  and  scat 
tered,  were  swept  onward  in  a  wide  and  gaily  colored 
stream.  What  a  brilliant,  flashing  scene!  It  looked 
as  if  it  were  nature's  holiday,  and  all  the  animal  life 
of  that  part  of  the  world  were  hurrying  to  some  great 
fair. 

If  the  impression  which  I  have  given  here  of  the 
country  may  seem  somewhat  rose-colored,  I  should 
explain  that  I  was  there  at  what  is  everywhere  the 
most  beautiful  time  of  the  year — late  spring  and 
early  summer.  I  remained,  however,  long  enough 
to  know  what  Texas  heat  is  like.  In  June  it  be 
came  too  hot  to  be  much  out  in  the  open  country; 
but  I  found  amusement  and  occupation  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  ranch-house.  A  ranch-house  is  one 
of  the  best  places  I  ever  found  for  reading.  There 
was  a  shelf  of  books.  Among  the  books  there  were 
the  works  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  Lord  Chesterfield, 
and,  somewhat  oddly,  it  seemed  to  me,  Miss  Emma 


Texan  Scenery  243 

Lazarus's  translations  from  Heine.  Miss  Lazarus's 
translations  struck  me  as  among  the  best  of  any  kind 
I  had  ever  read.  They  render  the  wayward  elo 
quence  of  the  poet  with  great  beauty  and  the  closest 
sympathy.  The  gift  of  making  translations  such 
as  hers  is  rarer  than  that  of  writing  good  original 
verse,  and  perhaps  of  more  value  to  the  world.  Her 
own  verse  was  full  of  thought  and  feeling.  But 
Miss  Lazarus  had  a  combination  of  feminine  sym 
pathy  with  a  sure  intellectual  and  critical  discrimina 
tion  which  especially  fitted  her  for  the  delineation 
of  great  literary  minds.  Had  she  lived,  and  chosen 
to  exercise  her  almost  unsurpassed  genius  in  this 
direction,  it  is  my  belief  that  she  would  have  placed 
the  English-speaking  world  under  great  and  lasting 
obligations.  The  volume  brought  also  to  my  mind 
a  fresh  sense  of  the  wide  void  left  when  we  missed 
from  among  us  so  rare  and  kind  a  spirit.  It  was 
great  good  fortune  to  find  among  these  books  "Ras- 
selas"  and  "The  Lives  of  the  Poets"  and  "Lord 
Chesterfield's  Letters  to  his  Son."  I  think  I  never 
so  well  appreciated  the  weighty  thought  and  senti 
ment  of  the  author  of  "Rasselas,"  or  the  sincerity 
and  acuteness  of  Chesterfield's  masterpiece.  I  read 
that  profoundly  sympathetic  work,  the  "Life  of 
Savage,"  and  at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  years,  and 
amid  the  quiet  of  the  Texan  pastures,  could  hear 
the  large  heart  of  Johnson  beating  like  some  engine 
which  shakes  with  its  pulsations  the  tenement  in 
which  it  is  housed. 

When  I  tired  of  reading,  I  could  watch  the  educa 
tion  of  four  young  mocking-birds,  packed  like  sar 
dines  in  a  nest,  on  the  lowest  branch  of  a  mesquite,  a 
rod  or  two  from  the  kitchen  door,  to  the  great  con- 


244  A  Virginian  Village 

cern  of  the  mother,  who  was  fluttering  and  crying 
about  my  ears.  Or  I  would  take  a  line,  and  bob  in 
the  stream  for  what  they  call  in  Texas  trout,  which 
are  really  bass,  or  for  catfish.  The  source  of  this 
stream  was  a  big  spring  near  at  hand,  in  which  I 
took  great  delight.  This  was  in  what  is  called  a 
motte.  A  motte  is  a  striking  peculiarity  of  Texan 
scenery.  It  is  a  clump  of  good-sized  forest-trees, 
usually  either  live-oaks  or  pecans.  In  a  region  as 
bare  of  forests  as  Texas,  a  motte  is  a  most  grateful 
object,  and  one  conspicuous  throughout  a  great  ex 
tent  of  country.  The  spring  I  speak  of  runs  out 
freely  from  under  a  rock  in  a  good  mass,  say  six  feet 
wide  and  two  or  three  feet  deep,  protected  by  a  thick 
clump  of  lofty  pecans.  The  bottom  is  smooth  and 
bright,  and  the  water,  which  is  perfectly  clear  and 
fresh,  comes  out  from  the  bosom  of  the  rock  with  a 
slant  impulse,  which  does  not  change  or  weaken 
throughout  the  day,  while  far  and  wide  upon  the 
whole  extent  of  the  landscape  without  the  sun's  heat 
descends  with  the  force  of  a  hammer.  Throughout 
the  summer  months  the  proprietor  takes  his  bath 
here  at  sunrise.  There  could  not  be  a  more  delight 
ful  one,  but  the  bather  must  not  mind  feeling  now 
and  then  against  him  the  athletic  stroke  of  the  bass 
or  the  gar  as  he  rushes  from  the  shadow  of  the  cavern 
into  the  sunlight. 

Early  in  June  I  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  what 
was  perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  spectacle  I  saw 
in  that  country — a  Texas  thunder-cloud.  They  have 
in  Texas  what  gives  every  promise  of  being  a  far 
more  dreadful  thunder-storm  and  rain-storm  than 
one  would  ever  see  in  the  East.  This,  however,  has 
no  result  in  the  form  of  rain,  and  is  accompanied  by 


Texan  Scenery  245 

very  little  noise.  But  evening  after  evening,  toward 
sun-down,  the  cloud  would  nevertheless  appear  at 
about  the  same  point  of  the  horizon,  and  would  re 
main  on  exhibition  for  an  hour  or  so,  while  I  watched 
it  from  a  seat  on  the  fence  inclosing  the  kitchen  yard, 
as  if  from  a  chair  in  the  dress-circle.  This  cloud  is 
a  structure  of  great  volume,  and  reaching  to  an  im 
mense  height,  which  unfolds  and  is  rolled  and  piled 
upward  slowly,  but  with  such  facility  of  progress 
that  you  think  the  whole  heavens  are  about  to  be 
seized  upon.  The  edifice  stands  in  front  of  you, 
from  its  base  to  its  rolling  turret  pierced  with  fine 
needles  of  lightning,  the  dark  mass  filled  throughout 
with  electricity  which  seems  hung  upon  a  hair-trigger. 
The  earth  is  in  shadow,  and  the  wind  blows  mystic 
ally.  It  is  very  terrific,  and  you  wonder  what  it  is 
going  to  do  to  you,  and  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  the 
beasts  of  the  field.  It  does  nothing,  however;  but 
from  its  depths  sketches  upon  the  fume  of  its  purple 
surface  hieroglyphic  after  hieroglyphic  of  the  utmost 
elaboration  and  perfection,  drawn  with  a  pencil  of 
infinite  fineness,  strength,  and  distinctness. 


LINCOLN  AND  STANTON 

I  AM  indebted  to  a  friend,  who  was  not  one  of 
Lincoln's  admirers,  for  the  following: — 
When  the  last  call  for  troops  was  made  and  a 
conscription  ordered,  the  proportion  assigned  to 
the  city  of  New  York  was  some  thousands  in 
excess  of  what  some  people  believed  to  be  our 
legal  liability,  and  our  committee  on  volunteering 
were  certain  they  could  prove  this,  if  they  could  have 
access  to  the  books  of  the  War  Department.  The 
Committee:  Orison  Blunt,  John  Fox,  Smith  Ely, 
and  William  M.  Tweed  went  to  Washington  and 
asked  Secretary  Stanton's  permission  to  examine  the 
records,  which  was  brusquely  refused  on  the  pretext 
that  the  books  were  in  constant  use.  The  Committee 
then  went  to  the  White  House  and  saw  Lincoln  in 
his  private  office.  After  asking  them  to  be  seated, 
he  resumed  his  chair  in  which  he  sat  partly  on  his 
back,  with  his  heels  literally  on  the  mantle-piece. 
His  linen  bosom  was  unbuttoned,  exposing  his  red 
flannel  shirt.  He  was  told  that  we  had  furnished,  in 
excess  of  previous  calls,  more  than  enough  to  exempt 
us  from  the  present  call,  which  we  would  prove,  if 
we  could  have  access  to  the  records  for  any  two  hours 
during  the  night,  when  they  were  not  in  use.  He 
was  also  assured  that  in  no  event  would  a  conscrip 
tion  be  needed  in  New  York,  as  we  were  getting 
fifty  volunteers  daily,  and  a  short  postponement  of 
the  draft  would  enable  us  to  supply  all  the  demands, 
just  or  unjust.  He  listened  with  an  expression  of 


Lincoln  and  Stanton  247 

profound  sadness,  and  said  he  thought  the  request 
a  reasonable  one,  but  he  feared,  if  the  order  for  a 
draft  was  postponed,  volunteering  would  cease. 
He  said  a  similar  committee  from  Cincinnati  had 
applied  to  him  for  a  postponement  of  the  draft,  as 
they  were  getting  twenty  volunteers  a  day.  It  was 
done,  and  the  day  following  not  a  single  volunteer 
appeared.  "That,"  said  Lincoln,  "is  human  nature. 
When  you  think  death  is  after  you,  you  run,  but  as 
soon  as  death  stops,  you  stop."  At  this  he  sprang 
from  his  chair,  throwing  his  arms  about,  and  laughed 
loudly  at  his  own  dismal  joke. 

Lincoln  gave  the  New  York  Committee  a  note  to 
Stanton,  substantially  as  follows: — 

Dear  Secretary: — These  gentlemen  from  New  York 
ask  only  what  I  think  is  right.  They  wish  access  to 
the  records,  with  two  accountants  for  two  hours  at 
any  time  to-night.  I  have  told  them  that  they  may 
have  double  that  time.  Yours, 

A.  LINCOLN. 

They  took  the  note  to  Stanton,  who  handed  it  to 
Frye.  The  latter  glanced  at  it  and,  saying,  "  Take 
seats,"  left  the  office.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned 
and  said  curtly,  "The  order  is  annulled;  you  can't 
see  the  books."  The  Committee  withdrew  and  re 
turned  to  New  York  the  next  forenoon.  The  clerk 
of  the  Committee,  Eugene  Durbin,  said  that  late 
in  the  evening  an  army  officer  with  two  orderlies 
called  at  the  Committee's  rooms  and  presented  the 
chairman  with  a  note,  which  read  as  follows:  "The 
Secretary  of  War  expects  to  be  informed  that  the 
Committee  on  Volunteering  from  the  County  of 
New  York  have  left  Washington  prior  to  noon  to- 


248  A  Virginian  Village 

morrow."  The  Committee  after  their  return  said 
it  was  Stanton  and  not  Lincoln,  who  was  President 
of  the  United  States. 

The  gentleman  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  this, 
the  late  Mr.  Smith  Ely,  a  former  mayor  of  New  York 
and  member  of  Congress,  was  a  democratic  political 
leader  of  war  times  and,  although  one  of  the  most 
amiable  and  kind-hearted  of  men,  had  of  course 
to  some  degree  the  feelings  regarding  Lincoln  shared 
by  the  men  who  in  those  days  frequented  the  Man 
hattan  Club.  He  does  not  see  much  point  in  Lin 
coln's  remark  about  death  and  the  draft.  To  me 
the  point  seems  clear  enough.  "When  the  Devil 
was  sick,  the  Devil  a  saint  would  be,"  etc.  Nor  will 
the  reader  conclude  with  the  Committee  that  Stan- 
ton  was  President  and  not  Lincoln.  Stanton  was  a 
man  of  great  administrative  ability,  a  kind  of  human 
dynamo,  such  as  you  could  hardly  duplicate  in  the 
country,  a  patriot  and  honest  man  besides.  He  was  al 
most  indispensable  and  had  to  be  got  on  with.  As  long 
as  the  issue  was  one  of  no  great  importance  (which 
seems  to  have  been  the  case  in  this  instance)  Lin 
coln  let  him  have  his  way.  Stanton  was  a  kind  of 
official  bouncer  for  the  Government,  and  it  is  possi 
ble  that  the  astute  Lincoln  appreciated  the  comfort 
of  having  work  of  this  kind  taken  off  his  hands.  I 
must  say  that  his  action  in  this  case  does  not  appear 
unreasonable.  It  surely  would  not  have  done  to 
have  every  town  in  the  country,  upon  which  a  req 
uisition  was  made  for  troops,  pulling  over  the  records 
of  the  War  Department.  And  if  New  York,  why  not 
any  other  place? 

Stanton  was  probably  the  greatest  man  in  civil 
life  produced  by  the  war,  of  course,  after  Lincoln. 


Lincoln  and  Stanton  249 

My  earliest  recollection  of  him  is  seeing  him  at  the 
trial  of  Sickles  for  the  murder  of  Key,  which  took 
place  when  I  was  a  boy  at  school  in  Washington. 
He  was  one  of  Sickles'  counsel.  The  acquaintance 
which  Sickles  formed  at  that  time  with  Stanton  was 
in  part  the  cause  of  Sickles'  success  as  a  soldier  in 
the  Civil  War.  Stanton  advanced  and  supported 
him.  I  remember  at  the  trial  a  thick  set  man  with 
a  heavy  beard,  who  sat  behind  the  other  lawyers,  and 
who  would  occasionally  interpolate  a  remark  in  a 
gruff  voice.  He  had  that  physical  build  which  is 
said  to  be  one  of  the  best  for  strength,  very  broad 
shoulders  and  deep  chest,  a  large  body  set  on  short, 
stout  legs.  He  had  Herculean  powers  of  labor.  I  have 
spoken  of  him  as  "honest."  I  suppose  he  was  hon 
est,  although  there  were  those  who  said  that  he  was 
not.  I  do  not  suppose  that  he  was  an  overscrupulous 
man.  He  would  have  been  out  of  place  as  war  min 
ister  if  he  had  been.  When  someone  complained  to 
him  about  General  Meigs,  who  was  one  of  his  sub 
ordinates,  he  said:  "Now  don't  say  anything  against 
Meigs;  he's  the  best  man  I  have;  he  is  a  soldier,  and 
can  do  things,  which  I,  as  a  lawyer,  find  it  hard  to 
do."  One  wonders  what  the  things  were  that  Stan- 
ton  wouldn't  do. 

I  am  able  to  make  only  one  original  contribution 
to  the  history  of  Stanton.  A  young  girl  once  told 
me  this  incident  about  him.  The  reader  of  course 
knows  Coleridge's  poem  beginning: — 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

Are  but  the  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


250  A  Virginian  Village 

Her  father  was  a  client  and  a  great  friend  of  Stan- 
ton's  and  she  used  to  make  long  visits  to  Stanton's 
family  during  the  Civil  War.  She  was  a  pretty  girl 
and  a  belle  of  those  days.  She  said  that  Stanton 
worked  all  the  time  and  that  the  only  relaxation  he 
allowed  himself  was  that  on  Sunday  afternoon  for 
an  hour  or  so  he  would  read  poetry  to  her,  and  she 
told  me  that  the  poem  he  read  oftenest  and  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  was  "All  thoughts,  all  passions, 
all  delights." 


WASHINGTON  AND  LINCOLN 

WE  are  fortunate  to  have  had  in  our  short 
career  two  such  characters  as  Washington 
and  Lincoln.  England  has  had  only  one,  Alfred. 
Washington  was,  of  course,  a  man  of  much  less 
salient  characteristics  than  Lincoln.  The  young 
Chastaleux  found  his  distinction  to  be  in  "  the  harmo 
nious  blending  of  his  characteristics  rather  than  in 
the  existence  of  marked  special  qualities."  So  Wash 
ington  has  always  seemed  to  his  countrymen,  but 
he  probably  had  more  pronounced  qualities  than  we 
have  supposed.  For  instance,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  sugar  and  water  expression  in  the  Gilbert  Stuart 
picture  was  true.  His  habitual  look  was,  I  am  sure, 
sterner  than  that.  Latrobe  thought  he  looked  stern, 
and  the  pencil  sketch  he  made  of  him  looks  so.  Al 
bert  Gallatin  said  that  "of  all  the  inaccessible  people 
he  ever  knew,  Washington  was  the  most  inaccessible." 
Gallatin,  however,  knew  him  as  a  young  man.  That 
could  not  have  been  the  opinion  of  the  farmer  Burns, 
a  neighbor  of  Washington,  who  once  said  to  him, 
— "Where  would  you  have  been,  if  the  widow  Custis 
hadn't  married  you?" 

There  grew  up  an  idea  that  Washington  was 
colorless.  Carlyle,  for  instance,  said  of  him  that — 
"George  was  just  Oliver  with  the  juice  left  out." 
That  is,  of  course,  untrue.  He  is  not  so  visible  as 
Lincoln,  has  not  Lincoln's  gift  of  familiarity.  In 
order  to  get  a  clear  idea  of  him,  we  should  have  to 
follow  him  more  closely  than  it  would  be  necessary 


252  A  Virginian  Village 

to  do  with  Lincoln.  But  as  we  did  so,  we  should, 
of  course,  find  him  a  man  of  marked  qualities.  I 
have  always  found  that  men  are  more  individual 
than  they  are  thought  to  be.  As  you  look  at  them 
closely,  marked  traits  begin  to  define  themselves. 
It  would  be  so  in  the  case  of  this  great  man.  I  am 
sure  also,  that  as  we  followed  him  closely,  we  should 
grow  very  fond  of  him.  We  should  perhaps  find 
him  pleasanter  company  than  Lincoln.  For  one 
thing  he  was  handsome;  he  had  a  person  worthy  to 
be  the  tenement  of  a  mind  and  character  as  great 
as  his.  I  daresay  he  was  not  unaware  of  this.  He 
seems  to  have  had  a  natural  allowance  of  vanity, 
which  is  a  cheerful  quality.  Of  that  quality  Lincoln 
does  not  seem  to  have  had  a  bit.  He  would  have 
been  the  happier  for  a  little  of  it.  Washington** 
however,  had  not  at  all  a  great  opinion  of  himself. 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  set  even  a  fair  estimate 
upon  his  own  powers.  Says  one  who  has  made  a 
study  of  him: — "There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  to 
the  day  of  his  death  he  was  the  most  determined 
sceptic  as  to  his  fitness  for  the  positions  to  which  he 
was  called  in  succession."  That  we  know  was  not 
Lincoln's  feeling.  Lincoln  probably  knew  perfectly 
well  what  he  was. 

He  had  not  in  the  least  Lincoln's  humor.  One  of 
his  foibles,  by  the  way,  was  a  disposition  to  shine 
as  a  wit,  a  disposition  which  was  a  source  of  disturb 
ance  to  his  admirers,  some  of  whom  had  come  over 
seas  to  set  eyes  upon  the  most  illustrious  man  of  his 
age.  His  worshipping  contemporaries  heartily  wished 
he  would  curb  this  propensity.  But  you  and  I  will 
find  this  and  his  other  foibles  pleasant,  because  they 
bring  him  nearer  to  us. 


Washington  and  Lincoln  253 

He  was  himself  of  a  happy  disposition.  He  appre 
ciated  the  good  things  of  this  world.  He  was  a  mun 
dane  person,  and  there  is  something  cheerful  in  that. 
Thackeray  hinted  that  in  his  marriage  he  was  not 
insensible  to  the  fact  that  the  widow  Custis  had  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  a  great  sum  in  those  days. 
People  here  were  indignant  at  the  suggestion  when 
it  was  made.  I  am  indignant  myself,  and  yet  the 
promptitude  with  which  his  heart  declared  itself 
when  he  saw  the  widow,  taken  in  connection  with 
the  fact  that  the  other  lady  for  whom  he  entertained 
a  tender  sentiment,  Miss  Phillipse,  was  also  an  heir 
ess,  does  look  as  if  he  had  his  wits  about  him.  But 
why  object  to  this?  It  was  in  character.  Why 
object  to  what  is  in  character,  and  why  hesitate  to 
recognize  it? 

The  time  was  also  cheerful;  at  any  rate  it  looks  so 
from  this  distance.  It  has  the  pleasantness  which 
belongs  to  the  beginnings  of  things,  to  youth  and 
spring.  The  sun  has  risen  upon  our  virgin  shores  and 
shines  upon  the  little  community  lying  between  the 
slopes  of  the  Alleghenies  and  the  white  coast  line. 
Behind,  all  the  way  to  the  Pacific,  is  the  vast  wilder 
ness  to  be  filled  one  day  with  a  mighty  state.  Above 
this  scene  there  appears  in  the  sky  the  countenance 
and  figure  of  the  hero.  How  beautiful  across  the  wide 
Atlantic  that  figure  must  have  seemed  to  minds 
filled  with  the  ideas  of  the  time  of  human  perfectibil 
ity.  Contrast  the  peace,  the  dignity,  the  triumph 
of  temperate  reason  that  sits  upon  those  classic 
features  and  those  reverend  locks  with  the  orgies 
enacted  in  France.  With  what  serenity  that  counte 
nance  invites  the  world  to  the  true  ways  of  freedom. 
You  would  think  that  there  were  to  be  no  more 


254  A  Virginian  Village 

wars  or  rumors  of  wars;  no  more  selfish  passions;  no 
political  strife  between  sections,  or  social  strife  be 
tween  classes.  You  would  almost  think  that  the 
ills  incident  to  flesh  and  blood  are  about  to  disappear. 

Both  Washington  and  Lincoln  are  men  from  the 
farm  and  the  country;  both  are  physically  strong 
men.  Washington  was  six  feet  three.  Lafayette 
said  of  him  that  his  hands  were  the  largest  he  ever 
saw.  He  was  a  skillful  horseman.  People  said  that 
scarcely  anyone  had  such  a  grip  with  his  knees  as 
he  had.  He  could  ride  anything;  all  that  he  asked 
of  a  horse  was  that  he  should  go  forward.  He  had  a 
passion  for  horses,  of  which  the  following  is  an  illus 
tration.  Like  most  men  who  have  accomplished 
much,  he  believed  there  was  a  right  and  a  wrong 
way  of  doing  things,  and  he  had  a  strong  feeling  that 
they  should  be  done  the  right  way.  A  tradition 
which  I  have  had  from  a  lady  connected  with  Wash 
ington's  family,  and  which  I  have  not  seen  in  print, 
is  that  he  would  go  into  the  stable  and  pass  a  silk 
handkerchief  over  the  coats  of  the  horses;  if  he  found 
dust  on  the  handkerchief,  the  groom  would  catch  it. 

Both  Washington  and  Lincoln  were  prudent  men 
in  money  matters.  In  Washington's  case  this  story 
may  be  related  as  an  instance.  I  have  seen  several 
versions  of  it.  The  following  will  do  as  well  as  any: 
Young  Mr.  Lewis  was  dining  at  Mount  Vernon. 
Washington  said  he  was  looking  for  a  pair  of  horses. 
Someone  said  that  Mr.  Lewis  had  a  fine  pair.  Lewis 
said,  "Yes,  I  have  a  good  pair,  but  they  will  cost 
something,  and  General  Washington  will  never  pay 
anything."  At  that  a  clock  on  the  mantlepiece 
struck.  It  was  a  cuckoo  clock,  the  gift  perhaps  of 
some  European  admirer.  (This  story  will  illustrate 


Washington  and  Lincoln  255 

as  well  Washington's  propensity  to  make  bad  jokes.) 
The  cuckoo  came  out  and  crowed  the  hour.  Wash 
ington  said:  "Ah,  Lewis,  you're  a  funny  fellow; 
that  bird  is  laughing  at  you."  That  is  one  of  those 
poor  stories,  which  I  prefer  to  good  ones,  for  the 
reason  that  they  are  more  likely  to  be  true.  Nobody 
would  have  been  at  the  trouble  to  invent  anything 
of  that  sort. 

There  is  one  difference  between  Washington  and 
Lincoln,  which  is  characteristic  and  important. 
Washington  was  an  aristocrat,  an  up-right,  down 
right  English  gentleman,  much  resembling  the  Eng 
lishmen  of  the  revolution  of  1688,  which  was  a 
Protestant  gentlemen's  revolution.  He  was  an  aristo 
crat,  but  with  a  difference.  A  fine  gentleman  of  that 
day  would  probably  have  thought  him  a  countryman. 
I  saw  lately  that  Josiah  Quincy,  who  had  known  him, 
said  that  he  gave  the  impression  of  a  man  who  had 
not  been  much  in  society.  I  should  think  that  that 
was  true.  One  has  an  impression  that  he  was  in  a 
noble  way  a  rustic.  He  was  an  English  country 
gentleman,  but  he  was  much  more  that  that.  On 
this  basis  there  was  superposed  something  of  Leather- 
stocking,  and  something  of  Cincinnatus.  With  his 
life  of  the  wilderness,  and  his  interests  as  a  patriot 
leader  and  protector  of  the  little  society  to  which 
he  belonged  against  the  savage  on  the  one  side  and 
the  European  oppressor  on  the  other,  how  far  was  he 
removed  from  the  limited  ideas  and  narrow  experi 
ence  of  an  eighteenth-century  English  squire. 

But  he  was  essentially  an  aristocrat.  Read  his 
letters,  and  you  will  see  that  the  tone  of  them  is 
unmistakably  aristocratic.  He  belonged  to  a  world 
of  classes,  a  world  in  which  the  existence  of  classes 


256  A  Virginian  Village 

was  the  natural  and  inevitable  order  of  things.  But 
a  new  society  was  about  to  grow  up,  and  it  was  right 
that  this  society  should  have  its  great  man.  In  the 
older  society  the  feeling  of  the  upper  class  was  one 
of  marked  separation  from  the  common  people.  The 
feeling  of  that  class  was,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
that  it  was  the  business  of  the  poor  to  be  unhappy. 
A  great  man  of  the  old  time  could  not  altogether 
escape  this  feeling.  There  had  been  plenty  of  good 
and  kind  rulers  in  the  past,  but  their  feeling  in  re 
gard  to  the  common  people  could  not  be  the  same  as 
if  they  had  themselves  been  of  that  class.  Lincoln, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  of  that  class.  In  him  we  have 
a  great  man,  unlike  the  good  rulers  of  the  past; 
not  a  Haroun  Al  Raschid,  mixing  with  his  people, 
nor  an  Alfred  burning  the  cakes,  but  the  real  thing. 
The  fact  that  he  was  from  that  class,  that  he  be 
longed  to  it  not  only  by  birth  and  experience  but  by 
nature  (for  birth  would  not  have  been  sufficient, 
if  it  had  not  been  that  in  his  heart  and  in  his  pro 
found  sympathies  he  was  a  democrat  to  the  core), 
was  an  important  element  of  his  fame.  Without  it, 
he  could  not  have  the  place  he  now  has. 

Of  course,  it  is  his  power  of  sympathy  that  at 
tracts  men.  But  that  would  not  of  itself  have  been 
enough.  What  endears  him  especially  to  men  is  the 
union  of  sympathy  with  faith  and  great  strength. 
It  is  very  unusual  to  find  these  qualities  united.  In 
the  list  of  English  and  American  worthies  I  can  think 
of  but  one  other  who  was  like  him  in  this  respect. 
And  you  must  go  to  literature  to  find  him.  .  I  mean 
Dr.  Johnson.  Scott  had  this  union  of  qualities,  al 
though  in  a  less  degree,  and  I  have  sometimes  had  a 
fancy,  if  there  be  not  a  certain  temerity  in  the  sug- 


Washington  and  Lincoln  257 

gestion,  that  you  might  descry  some  such  associa 
tion  of  characteristics  in  the  vast  and  vague  per 
sonality  that  lies  remote  and  in  shadow  behind  the 
writings  of  Shakespeare.  But  in  Lincoln  and  John 
son  it  is  clear  and  marked,  and  it  is  the  reason  of  their 
great  power  of  winning  affection.  Men  wish  to 
attach  themselves  to  such  characters.  The  thought 
of  each  man  is : — "He  would  have  been  my  friend." 

No  great  public  man  has  had  such  strong  human 
intuitions.  Certainly  no  man  in  our  history  is  his 
equal  in  that  respect.  Take  Webster,  for  instance; 
I  presume  that  scarcely  any  of  our  great  men  have 
been  his  intellectual  equals.  And  he  was  much  be 
sides  an  intellect.  He  was  a  broad  and  generous 
kind  of  man.  No  man  could  have  been  further  re 
moved  from  that  hard  and  narrow  conceit  of  the 
intellectual  athlete,  who  thinks,  because  his  head 
is  a  good  one,  it  is  adequate  to  anything,  and  that 
there  is  nothing  in  Heaven  and  Earth  outside  of  or 
beyond  his  philosophy.  He  was  moreover  a  poet, 
witness  the  many  fine  things  he  had  to  say  about  the 
Sun.  And  he  was  human,  too,  what  you  would  call 
a  good  fellow.  But  he  had  not  Lincoln's  close  human 
intuitions,  his  eyes  and  heart  for  men  and  human 
life. 

It  appears  from  the  recent  life  of  John  Hay  that 
it  took  Lincoln's  secretaries  a  year  or  more  to  find 
out  that  their  chief  was  a  great  man  and  that  they 
found  it  out  before  other  people  did.  In  talking  with 
people  who  knew  Lincoln  before  the  war,  nearly  all  of 
whom  are  now  gone,  it  has  always  been  easy  for  me 
to  see  that  they  thought  the  modern  notion  of  him 
extravagant.  They  may  have  had  some  jealousy 
of  him,  or  may  have  felt  something  of  pique  and 


258  A  Virginian  Village 

vexation  that  they  had  not  been  clever  enough  to 
find  out  all  this  for  themselves,  but  that  was  what 
they  thought.  Of  course  they  were  too  prudent  to 
say  that,  but  you  could  see  it  in  their  faces.  The 
devotion  of  the  people  of  this  country  to  Lincoln  is, 
however,  not  merely  a  matter  of  opinion.  He  has 
got  hold  of  their  hearts  as  no  other  American  ever 
did,  not  even  Washington,  and  he  has  held  them  for 
fifty  years,  and  there  is  no  indication  that  this  sen 
timent  is  on  the  wane. 


LINCOLN  AND  FORESIGHT 

IT  is  strange  that  Lincoln  with  his  thoughtful- 
ness  should  not  have  foreseen  in  some  degree 
the  approach  of  secession  and  war.  He  had  been 
in  Congress  and  must  have  known  the  southern 
people  fairly  well.  He  was  undoubtedly  a  foreseeing 
kind  of  man.  No  one  saw  more  clearly  than  he  did 
that  the  country  could  not  continue  to  exist  half 
free  and  half  slave.  Indeed  he  was  one  of  the  two 
or  three  who  were  the  first  to  perceive  that.  It 
seems  strange,  therefore,  that  he  had  not  some  no 
tion  of  what  was  coming.  But  who  does  foresee  what 
is  ahead?  Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  foreseeing  kind 
of  man,  I  should  have  thought.  He  spent  a  number 
of  years  in  France  before  the  Revolution,  knew  the 
country  well  and  was  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
leading  people  of  France.  He  remained  there  till 
1785.  In  eight  years  from  that  time  the  King's 
head  was  off,  and  yet  the  wise,  observant,  thoughtful 
and  presumably  far-sighted  Franklin  seems  never  in 
the  least  to  have  suspected  what  was  coming.  The 
French  Revolution  would  indeed  have  been  very 
difficult  to  foresee,  as  perhaps  our  Civil  War  was  in  a 
less  degree.  But  there  are  other  things  not  so  diffi 
cult  to  know  beforehand,  which  are  not  foreseen. 
I  was  in  the  House  of  Commons  one  night  during  the 
Franco-Prussian  War,  when  Vernon  Harcourt,  who 
was  at  that  time  unconnected  with  the  government, 
accused  the  government  of  shortsightedness  in  not 
foreseeing  the  war,  implying  that  he  had  foreseen  it. 


260  A  Virginian  Village 

Robert   Lowe,    an   extremely   clever   man,    got   up 
to  answer  for  the  government,  and  said:  "Because 
the  gentleman  foresaw  this  war,  he  thinks  that  every 
body  else  should  have  been  as  clever  as  he  was.     I 
am  free  to  say,  however,  that  the  whole  thing  was  a 
complete  surprise  to  me."    Perhaps  he  should  have 
had  some  notion  that  it  was  coming.    If  the  English 
government  had  taken  the  trouble  to  fish  out  from 
the  pigeonholes  of  Foreign  Offices,  the  reports  of 
their  diplomatic  agents  on  the  continent  they  might 
have  seen  it  coming,     But  they  did  not;  men  are 
always  too  busy  with  present  matters  to  bother  with 
what  is  problematical.    How  little  we  believed,  for  in 
stance,  in  the  coming  of  the  present  war.    A  half  a 
dozen  nations  had  each  been  holding  for  forty  years  a 
loaded  pistol  with  the  finger  on  a  hair  trigger,  and  yet 
how  surprised  we  were  when  in  the  lapse  of  time  one 
of  the  pistols  went  off.    Much  had  been  said  about  the 
next  "war,"  but  have  we  not  put  the  prophecies 
regarding  it  in  much  the  same  catagory  as  that  of 
the  destruction  of  the  world  by  fire.     People  scarcely 
ever  make  any  account  of  prophecies.    In  their  deep 
attentive  study  of  human  nature,  the  ancients  said 
that  the  gods  gave  Cassandra  the  gift  of  prophecy, 
but  coupled  the  gift  with  the  condition  that  her 
prophecies  should  not  be  believed.    Is  that  not  so  of 
all  prophets?    They  are  usually  regarded  as  bores 
or    cranks.      The    heedlessness    and    incuriousness 
about  the  future  which  men  show  regarding  public 
matters,  and  even  to  a  considerable  degree  about 
their  own  private  affairs,  is  so  marked  as  almost  to 
indicate  an  intention  on  the  part  of  nature  that  they 
shall   not  much   concern   themselves  with   what   is 
ahead  of  them. 


Lincoln  and  Foresight  261 

There  were,  however,  some  prescient  souls  who 
did  foresee  our  struggle.  Webster  no  doubt  had 
some  prevision  of  the  contest  in  which  his  only 
son  was  to  die.  "When  my  eyes  turn  to  behold 
for  the  last  time  the  Sun  in  his  coming,"  etc.  Mr. 
S.  J.  Tilden  said  to  John  Bigelow  some  years  before 
the  war — "If  Mr.  Bryant  and  those  who  think  as  he 
does  succeed  in  what  they  are  about,  the  streets  of 
this  city  will  run  red  with  blood."  They  did  run 
red  during  the  draft  riots,  much  redder  than  is  com 
monly  understood.  Mr.  Loyall  Farragut  tells  me 
that  his  father,  Admiral  Farragut  (then  Captain 
Farragut),  and  he  were  on  the  balcony  of  the  old 
Metropolitan  Hotel  in  Broadway  one  flight  in  1858 
and  were  looking  at  a  Republican  torchlight  pro 
cession,  when  his  father  said — "I  don't  like  these 
marching  men.  It  looks  to  me  like  war."  There 
were  many  who  must  have  foreseen  it.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  ought  to  have  foreseen  it  myself.  My 
father  had  a  friend,  John  Heart,  who  was  a  Federal 
office  holder  at  Washington  under  Buchanan.  He 
was  from  South  Carolina  and  had  been  editor  of  the 
"Charleston  Mercury,"  the  paper  which  the  morning 
after  the  passage  of  the  ordinance  of  Secession  by 
South  Carolina  printed  the  news  from  the  North 
under  the  heading  of  "Foreign  Intelligence."  He 
came  to  pay  us  a  visit  in  Brooklyn  in  the  summer 
of  1860.  He  had  just  been  in  Charleston  and  from 
what  he  told  us  we  could  have  no  doubt  that  South 
Carolina  would  secede  if  Lincoln  were  elected.  I 
had  been  lately  much  in  the  South  and,  although 
only  seventeen  years  old,  knew  enough  of  the  temper 
and  characteristics  of  the  southern  people  to  be 
aware  that  secession  once  started,  it  would  be  very 


262  A  Virginian  Village 

difficult  to  prevent  the  spread  of  it.  But  youth  is 
sanguine  and  precipitate.  I  wanted  to  see  the 
power  of  slavery  curtailed,  and  was  willing  to  take 
the  chances,  and  no  doubt  other  boys  and  young  men 
felt  as  I  did. 

Calhoun,  perhaps  the  most  prescient  of  American 
statesmen,  foresaw  the  struggle  and  wanted  to  bring 
on  the  war  before  the  strength  of  the  rapidly  grow 
ing  North  should  prove  too  great  to  be  withstood 
by  the  South.  The  scheme  of  the  North  should 
have  been  to  put  off  the  struggle  as  long  as  possible 
for  the  same  reason.  If  Calhoun  saw  what  was  for 
the  interest  of  the  South,  it  should  not  have  required 
superhuman  intelligence  on  the  part  of  the  North  to 
see  where  its  interests  lay.  No  one,  however,  in  the 
North  seemed  to  see  this  point  quite  as  sharply  as 
Calhoun  did.  But  there  were  those  in  the  North 
who  saw  that  great  danger,  perhaps  disunion  and  war, 
would  follow  anti-slavery  agitation,  and  who  wished 
to  adhere  to  the  status  quo,  preferring  the  chances 
of  the  future  to  the  present  probability  of  secession 
and  war,  and  thinking  that  it  was  better  that  the 
slaves  should  remain  for  a  while  longer  in  bondage 
than  that  the  people  of  the  country  should  be  cutting 
one  another's  throats.  The  men  who  were  of  this 
opinion,  the  Websters,  the  Everetts,  the  Rufus 
Choates  and  the  Tildens,  with  their  larger  and 
calmer  intelligence  and  their  greater  knowledge  of 
the  real  conditions  of  the  country,  were,  I  cannot 
help  thinking,  the  true  statesmen  of  that  day. 

But  how  would  it  have  been  possible  after  the 
repeal  of  the  Missouri  Compromise  to  put  off  the 
war?  If  Douglas,  the  marplot  or  demagogue  or 
egotist,  or  whatever  he  was,  could  have  been  sup- 


Lincoln  and  Foresight  263 

pressed,  it  might  have  been  possible  to  postpone  the 
war  for  four  or  eight  years  or  even  longer.  But  the 
repeal  once  passed,  and  Pandora's  box  open,  and  the 
newspapers  and  all  the  poets  and  orators  hounding 
the  country  on  to  war,  was  it  possible  to  do  it?  You 
cannot  teach  tact  and  discretion  to  twenty  millions 
of  people.  One  night  in  Plymouth  Church  in 
Brooklyn,  a  few  weeks  before  John  Brown's  execu 
tion, — so  a  friend  told  me  who  was  there — Wendell 
Phillips,  a  Massachusetts  man,  said — "The  state 
proclamations  of  Massachusetts  conclude  with  the 
words — 'God  save  the  commonwealth  of  Massa 
chusetts,'  but  if  Massachusetts  allows  John  Brown 
to  be  hanged,  I  say,  'God  damn  the  commonwealth 
of  Massachusetts.'"  The  effect  of  this  spoken  with 
the  utmost  passion  to  a  vast,  excited  and  sympa 
thetic  audience  by  a  perfectly  honest  fanatic,  who 
was  at  the  same  time  an  incomparable  orator,  may 
be  easily  conceived.  When  such  incidents  were 
possible,  could  war  be  far  off?  If  the  war  was  to 
come,  Lincoln  was  the  perfect  and  apparently 
Heaven  appointed  leader,  and  it  was  perhaps  for 
tunate  that  he  was  no  wiser  than  he  was.  He  might 
have  lined  up  as  a  Democrat,  and  the  country  would 
have  lost  him.  It  is  often  said  that  horses  are  un 
intelligent,  but  if  a  horse  knew  a  little  more  than  he 
does,  he  would  not  let  you  ride  him  at  all;  and  it  is 
possible  that  Providence,  or  Fate,  in  its  large  de 
signs,  may  make  use  of  the  ignorance  of  horses  and 
of  great  statesmen  in  about  the  same  way. 


VIRGINIA  WOMEN 

THE  peculiar  characteristics  which  marked  the 
women  of  our  southern  states  were  due  in 
part  to  the  fact  that  the  southern  people  had  more 
leisure  than  any  other  people  in  the  country.  They 
had  the  slaves  to  do  the  hard  work.  The  men  were 
thus  subject  to  that  "love  in  idleness,"  which  the 
poet,  in  a  passage  of  incomparable  delicacy,  suggests 
as  an  extremely  virulent  variety  of  the  disorder. 
The  women  were  admired  and  worshipped,  as  were 
no  other  women  I  have  ever  known.  This  fact  gave 
them  a  peculiar  force  and  courage.  They  behaved 
with  that  natural  grace  and  spoke  with  that  elo 
quence,  which  are  the  results  of  perfect  liberty,  and 
this  liberty  was  again  the  result  of  the  sympathy 
and  kindness  with  which  they  were  regarded.  Their 
voices  were  better  than  those  of  most  northern  wom 
en,  although  there  was  a  wildness  and  rusticity  in 
their  speech,  which  was  a  good  deal  like  that  of 
the  negroes,  with  whom  they  were  brought  up.  I 
had  always  supposed  that  this  speech  was  caught 
by  the  whites  from  the  negroes.  But  the  late  Ed 
ward  Eggleston,  who  was  an  authority  on  American 
Colonial  history,  assured  me  that  it  was  copied  by 
the  negroes  from  the  whites,  and  was  like  the  speech 
used  in  England  during  the  seventeenth  and  eight 
eenth  centuries.  I  should,  however,  doubt  the 
truth  of  this  explanation.  Their  voices  were  very 
saccharine,  in  this  respect  resembling  the  drug  of 
that  name  which  is  said  to  have  forty  times  the 
strength  of  sugar.  I  have  in  mind  one  of  these 


Virginia  Women  265 

ladies  who  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  who  was  a  cele 
brated  Virginia  belle.  She  was  very  handsome,  but 
she  was  much  more  than  a  pretty  woman,  for  she 
had  strong  sense  and  a  great  deal  of  humor.  She 
took  me  once  in  a  southern  city  to  an  evening  party, 
where  the  average  of  feminine  good  looks,  it  seemed 
to  me,  was  as  high  as  in  a  London  drawing  room  in 
the  day  of  the  professional  beauties.  The  rooms 
were  crowded  and  she  went  ahead  of  me,  introducing 
me  to  people  as  we  passed.  I  could  not  but  be 
struck,  as  I  followed  her,  with  the  movements,  at 
once  energetic  and  graceful,  of  the  strongly  made 
figure.  Among  other  people  she  introduced  me  to 
a  man  whom  I  had  heard  make  a  brilliant  speech  in 
Congress  in  antebellum  days.  I  had  told  her  that 
I  had  heard  him  make  this  speech.  She  introduced 
me  to  him,  and  then  pulled  me  away  from  him  before 
I  had  time  to  say  anything.  She  explained  after 
wards  :  "  I  was  awfully  afraid  you'd  tell  him  you  had 
heard  him  speak  in  Congress  when  you  were  a  boy 
before  the  war.  He  thinks  himself  a  great  beau  and 
flirt.  I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  done  to 
you."  I  had  not  known  her  as  a  girl,  but  I  could 
understand  how  irresistible  she  must  have  been  at 
that  time.  Irresistible,  indeed,  she  still  was.  Then 
she  was,  as  southern  women  are  apt  to  be,  through 
and  through  a  woman.  She  was  of  a  vigorous  phy 
sique  and  had  strong  health.  Possessed  of  such 
qualities  as  I  have  indicated  and  richly  endowed,  as 
she  was,  with  the  force  and  the  attractions  of  sex, 
and  speaking  a  patois  that  Venus  might  have  picked 
up  in  Africa,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  the  effect  she 
must  have  produced  among  the  idle  and  susceptible 
southern  youth. 


266  A  Virginian  Village 

Early  in  the  last  century  three  southern  women, 
who  had  some  of  the  qualities  here  indicated,  and,  I 
dare  say,  the  same  speech,  went  to  England,  where 
they  made  great  marriages.  Their  name  was  Caton, 
and  they  were  called  the  Three 'Graces.  One  of 
them  was  dining  at  Windsor  Castle  in  William  the 
Fourth's  time,  when  a  man  at  the  table  asked  her 
whether  she  came  from  the  part  of  the  country 
where  they  guess  or  where  they  calculate.  The 
King  said  with  emphasis,  "She's  from  neither;  she's 
from  the  part  of  the  country  where  they  fascinate.'' 
These  ladies  were  from  Maryland  and  were  much 
like  Virginia  women,  as  were  also  the  women  of 
Washington  and  the  District  of  Columbia,  Wash 
ington  having  been  till  the  time  of  the  war  very 
much  a  southern  city.  I  knew  in  London  a  sister  of 
Lord  Napier,  who  was  British  Minister  in  Washing 
ton  in  the  late  fifties,  and  who  had  retired  from  the 
service  and  was  living  in  London.  She  asked  me  to 
dine  to  meet  her  brother,  and  I  had  some  very  in 
teresting  talk  with  him  about  Washington  in  those 
days.  Among  other  interesting  things,  I  remember 
he  told  me  that  at  that  time  there  were  more  pretty 
girls  in  Georgetown  than  there  were  in  London. 
The  well  known  poet,  "Owen  Meredith,"  afterwards 
Lord  Lytton  and  Governor  General  of  India,  was  an 
attache  of  his  uncle,  Sir  Henry  Bulwer,  British 
Minister  in  Washington  during  the  early  fifties  and 
one  of  Lord  Napier's  predecessors.  Lytton's  biog 
rapher  informs  us  that,  while  in  Washington,  he  fell 
in  love  with  some  girl  who  did  not  smile  upon  his 
suit.  The  poor  young  fellow — he  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy — was  in  the  deepest  dejection.  I  wonder 
if  it  could  have  been  one  of  these  Georgetown  girls. 


Virginia  Women  267 

I  have  a  boyish  recollection  of  the  most  celebrated 
of  these  Washington  beauties.  Shortly  before  the 
war  I  was  at  school  in  Washington.  In  those  days 
a  man  named  Shepard  had  a  book  store  on  the  corner 
of  Seventh  and  D  Streets.  Shepard  was  a  kind, 
brisk  little  man,  who  used  to  let  me  come  on  Sat 
urdays  and  read  all  day  long  in  his  shop.  One  fine, 
balmy  spring  day  the  little  place  became  suddenly  a 
scene  of  great  splendor.  Mr.  Robert  A.  Pryor,  at 
that  time  a  member  of  Congress  from  Virginia  and 
an  ardent  advocate  of  Douglas's  election  to  the 
presidency,  entered  as  the  convoy  of  the  Illinois 
Senator  and  his  wife.  Of  Mr.  Douglas  I  remember 
not  very  much,  but  I  have  a  lively  recollection  of 
the  lady  who  accompanied  him,  whose  beauty  was 
very  celebrated.  Mrs.  Douglas  was  indeed  the 
most  celebrated  woman  of  society  in  the  country.  I 
have  her  before  me  very  clearly  indeed.  I  remember 
a  figure,  tall  and  majestic,  gliding  with  conscious 
queenliness  about  the  little  shop,  which  seemed 
strangely  honored  by  such  a  visitation.  I  remember 
a  swan-like  step  and  the  rustling  and  swaying  of  a 
skirt,  the  balloon-like  skirt  of  the  period — a  garment, 
by  the  way,  to  the  contemporary  eye,  most  expres 
sive  of  discretion  and  dignity — which  flowed  after 
and  pursued  the  gliding  figure.  I  remember  a  de 
meanor  lofty  and  gracious.  From  what  heights  she 
looks  downward!  The  voice  is  full  and  stately.  She 
speaks  little,  however,  but  looks  downward  and 
about  her  with  a  dignified  recognition;  amiable, 
condescending,  kind  even,  yet  with  no  thought  of 
abating  one  jot  of  her  graces  and  splendors,  the  full 
force  of  which  she  well  comprehends — the  sort  of 
apparition  very  crushing  to  a  boy  of  fifteen,  to  whom 


268  A  Virginian  Village 

she  is  not,  as  she  would  be  to  you  or  me,  a  woman, 
who  has  had,  like  another,  an  infancy  and  girlhood. 
To  such  eyes  she  stands  absolute,  unrelated  to  time 
or  cause.  The  garments  she  wore  were  no  more  put 
on  than  was  Diana's  tunic  or  the  cestus  of  Aphrodite. 
Such  as  she  was,  stately  and  beautiful  presence,  fine 
voice,  flowing  skirt  and  gliding  motion,  chignon, 
crinoline  and  all,  such  she  had  been  created. 

The  wit  of  the  women  was  applauded  and  en 
couraged  as  much  as  their  beauty  was  admired  and 
extolled.  One  young  Richmond  girl  of  wartime  had 
great  fame  for  wit.  I  have  heard  many  examples 
of  it  and  have  seen  some  of  them  in  print.  The  wit 
of  them  was  well  enough,  but  that  was  not  so  inter 
esting  to  me  as  was  the  sweet,  artless  confidence 
they  expressed  in  the  kindness  with  which  they 
would  be  received.  I  thought  they  were  scarcely  so 
good  as  the  following,  which  was  told  me  by  her 
sister  and  must  of  course  have  been  true.  Her  father, 
a  distinguished  southern  lawyer  and  statesman,  was 
a  religious  man  and  was  anxious  that  his  daugh 
ters  should  be  religious,  and  he  asked  his  pastor,  an 
eminent  Presbyterian  clergyman,  to  speak  to  her 
upon  this  subject.  It  is  perhaps  not  understood  to 
what  a  degree  the  South  was  a  religious  community. 
It  was  perhaps  the  most  religious  part  of  the  coun 
try.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
a  conservative  community.  The  necessity  they 
were  under  to  be  silent  about  slavery  put  a  restraint 
upon  liberty  of  mind.  Such  mental  life  as  the  South 
had,  and  there  was  not  much  of  it,  thus  found  a  safe 
outlet  in  religious  interest  and  feeling.  In  one  of 
Trollope's  novels,  written  during  our  Civil  War, 
there  is  a  rural  Dean,  who  was  strongly  Southern  in 


Virginia  Women  269 

his  sympathies,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  saying 
that  the  Southerners  were  Christian  gentlemen  and 
the  Northerners  were  infidel  snobs.  I  think  the 
Southerners  were  Christian  gentlemen.  The  clergy 
man,  whose  aid  this  Christian  gentleman  had  re 
quested,  was  an  old  man  and  a  widower.  He  took 
the  young  lady  for  a  drive  in  the  cemetery,  and  they 
got  out  at  the  grave  of  the  young  lady's  mother. 
The  clergyman  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  to 
introduce  the  subject  he  had  in  mind,  and  he  told 
her  that  there  was  a  matter  of  great  importance  upon 
which  he  wished  to  speak  to  her.  The  young  girl 
saw  what  was  coming,  and  wished  to  head  him  off. 
So  she  said:  "Doctor  H.,  do  you  think  it  proper  to 
take  advantage  of  this  opportunity,  when  I  am 
standing  here  by  the  grave  of  my  mother,  to  make 
me  a  declaration  of  love  and  an  offer  of  marriage?" 
Of  course,  any  serious  conversation  was  out  of  the 
question  after  that.  This  young  girl  died  at  an 
early  age,  and  the  people  of  Richmond,  who  were 
very  fond  and  proud  of  her,  followed  her  to  the  grave. 
The  shops  of  the  town,  a  city  of  forty  thousand  peo 
ple,  were  closed  at  this  time. 

At  one  of  the  Virginia  springs  they  told  me  this 
incident:  A  southern  girl  appeared  there  who  was 
very  handsome,  if  of  a  somewhat  bold  type  of  beauty, 
and  she  at  once  had  a  string  of  men  following  her. 
She  was  perhaps  somewhat  wanting  in  refinement, 
a  quality  which  men  do  not  much  mind,  if  offset  by 
attractions  sufficiently  powerful.  The  women  of 
course  did  not  approve  of  her  at  all,  and  liked  her 
none  the  better  for  taking  their  beaux  away  from 
them,  and  they  did  not  scruple  to  ask  her  who  she 
was  and  where  she  came  from.  She  replied  with 


270  A  Virginian  Village 

much  good  temper  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
southern  planter,  a  planter  being  about  the  most 
respectable  thing  you  can  be  in  the  South.  The  young 
girl  spoke  with  as  much  truth  as  wit,  for  it  turned  out 
that  her  father  was  an  undertaker. 

I  met  an  English  Cavalry  officer  some  years  ago 
in  England,  I  think  at  Aldershot,  who  came  to  me 
and  asked  me  if  I  could  tell  him  anything  of  two  la 
dies  of  Richmond,  whom  he  had  formerly  known. 
He  told  me  this  incident.  He  said  that  he  was  travel 
ing  in  company  with  these  ladies,  then  young  girls, 
on  a  steamer.  The  steamer  was  crowded,  and  some 
of  the  passengers  were  obliged  to  sleep  upon  the  deck. 
The  feet  of  one  of  these  young  ladies  were  in  close 
proximity  to  his  head.  She  remarked  that  she  re 
minded  herself  of  the  motto,  "Sic  semper  tyrannis" 
in  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  State  of  Virginia,  in  which 
Virginia  is  represented  as  a  female  figure  with  her 
foot  on  the  head  of  a  prostrate  man,  presumably  a 
tyrant.  He  said  he  thought  that  very  bright  of  her. 
This  young  lady  came  rightly  by  her  gift  of  humorous 
fancy.  There  can  be  no  harm  in  my  saying  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Y.  Mason,  who  was 
our  minister  in  Paris  in  the  early  days  of  the  Second 
Empire,  and  who  was  himself  a  man  of  a  somewhat 
whimsical,  if  indiscreet,  humor,  if  we  may  judge 
from  this  story,  which  has  been  told  me  by  some  of 
the  pleasant  people,  who  were  about  Paris  in  that 
pleasant  time.  The  Haitian  minister  in  Paris  at  that 
time  was  an  accomplished  gentleman  and  a  superior 
man,  but  was,  as  Haitian  diplomats  usually  are,  a 
negro.  Mr.  Mason,  on  being  asked  his  opinion  of  his 
Haitian  colleague,  replied  that  he  thought  he  was 
worth  about  a  thousand  dollars,  that  being  the  price 


Virginia  Women  271 

of  an  able-bodied  colored  man  at  that  time  in  Vir 
ginia. 

I  have  never  seen  women  who  had  a  greater  gift 
of  friendship,  of  friendship  in  which  there  was  no 
admixture  of  any  different  sentiment,  than  the  wom 
en  of  the  South.  I  am  speaking  of  the  married 
women.  Before  marriage  I  dare  say  there  was  plenty 
of  flirtation  among  them.  I  believe  for  instance 
that  they  had  a  habit  of  temporary  engagements, 
in  which,  so  southern  ladies  have  assured  me,  men 
were  not  allowed  the  privileges  which  are  usually 
permitted  to  engaged  lovers.  These  young  women 
were  such  divinities  that  I  dare  say  that  they  could 
have  exacted  any  conditions  they  liked  from  these 
patient  admirers,  and  that  any  bluff  they  were 
minded  to  put  up  would  have  been  successful.  I 
believe  this  habit  of  temporary  engagements  was 
very  general.  I  have  heard  that  a  well-known 
southern  literary  man,  on  being  asked  why  he  had 
never  offered  himself  to  a  certain  clever  and  much 
admired  young  woman,  replied  that  she  had  never 
happened  to  be  disengaged  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was.  The  gift  the  married  women  had  of  friendship 
in  which  there  was  no  admixture  of  flirtation  may 
have  borne  some  relation  to  the  fact  that  the  standard 
of  chastity  amongst  southern  women  was  very  high. 
A  violation  of  the  marital  vows  was  pretty  sure  to 
result  in  bloodshed.  The  young  girls  had  the  same 
protection.  I  dare  say  there  was  also  a  certain  pro 
tection  for  the  white  women  in  the  relations  which 
existed  between  the  two  races  in  the  South. 

Southern  women  were  very  decidedly  persons; 
they  were  often  women  of  a  great  deal  of  ability. 
The  wife  of  a  planter  who  had  fifty  or  a  hundred 


272  A  Virginian  Village 

slaves,  and  many  of  the  planters  had  more,  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  in  feeding  and  clothing  them.  Then, 
as  almost  everything  they  used  came  off  the  planta 
tion,  the  gardens,  the  milk,  cream  and  butter,  and  to 
certain  extent,  the  stock,  were  in  the  keeping  of  the 
women  of  the  house.  There  was  thus  a  great  deal  of 
opportunity,  if  not  of  necessity,  for  the  possession 
of  business  ability  by  these  ladies.  I  may  here  give 
a  brief  sketch  of  a  Virginian  woman  who  was  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  and  who  had  some  of  the  qualities  I 
have  mentioned.  She  was,  when  I  knew  her,  a 
woman  approaching  middle  age.  She  had  been  a 
very  handsome  girl,  and  was  a  comely  and  a  fine 
woman  still.  She  had  been  as  a  girl,  so  I  have  been 
told,  a  great  flirt,  the  energy  of  mind  and  character, 
of  which  she  had  a  great  deal,  being  given  up  at  that 
time  to  the  subject  of  her  relations  with  her  admirers. 
Good  comrade,  as  she  was,  with  a  very  capacious 
heart,  I  dare  say  she  loved  them  all.  She  devoted 
to  these  flirtations  the  same  propulsive  force  which 
later,  when  I  knew  her,  she  gave  to  other  employ 
ments.  She  married  and  had  an  only  child,  a 
daughter,  and  became  a  widow.  The  daughter  was 
already  grown,  when  I  made  their  acquaintance. 
This  daughter  was  the  passion  of  her  life,  the  girl  re 
turning  to  the  full  the  mother's  affection  and  de 
votion.  To  this  daughter  and  to  the  care  of  the 
property  which  had  been  left  her  by  her  husband, 
and  which  she  managed  with  energy  and  ability,  she 
devoted  her  life. 

Her  love  for  the  girl,  however,  did  not  interfere 
with  her  power  of  affection  for  other  people.  On 
the  contrary,  I  dare  say,  it  increased  that  capacity. 
She  had  great  humanity,  and  she  loved  men  and 


Virginia  Women  273 

women,  men  I  should  say  more  than  women.  Women 
were  human  beings,  and  she  liked  and  admired  cer 
tain  of  them  with  the  warmth  which  belonged  to  her 
nature  and  with  the  intelligence  of  a  bright  and  vig 
orous  mind.  Still  she  was  rather  disposed  to  be 
jealous  of  women.  She  was  certainly  extremely  jeal 
ous  of  young  girls,  who  might  in  any  way  be  rivals  of 
her  daughter.  That  jealousy  is  a  quality  which  is 
very  common  among  women,  who  have  daughters. 
They  confront  the  world  on  their  behalf  with  a  fierce 
ness  somewhat  like  that  of  other  members  of  the  ani 
mal  creation.  An  extreme  example  of  the  quality 
would  be  a  she-grizzly  with  a  cub,  which  is  said  to  be 
the  most  terrible  thing  there  is.  This  quality,  as  one 
sees  it  in  women,  should  not  be  regarded  as  unpleas 
ant  or  ridiculous;  it  has,  on  the  contrary,  a  kind  of 
sublimity;  it  is  the  reverse  of  the  medal  of  maternal 
affection.  My  friend  had  it  in  a  very  marked  degree. 
I  doubt  if  it  was  ever  quite  agreeable  to  her  to  hear 
the  praises  of  young  women  other  than  her  daughter. 
The  girl  was  very  charming,  of  course;  she  had  two 
qualities  which  I  remember  especially,  fine  eyes  and 
a  good  voice.  She  had  an  eye,  the  delicate  blue  of 
which  had  been  painted  by  the  Divine  Artist  with  a 
pencil  so  exquisite  as  almost  to  baffle  comprehension, 
and  certainly  to  elude  memory  and  imagination.  Her 
voice  was  extremely  round,  clear  and  fresh,  and  it 
had  a  truth  such  as  I  don't  think  it  would  be  in  the 
power  of  any  feature  of  the  countenance  to  convey. 
Nevertheless  there  were  other  girls  with  fine  eyes  and 
good  voices.  But  they  did  not  exist  for  the  mother 
of  this  one. 

She  was  active  in  the  charities  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  in  the  work  of  a  neighboring  church,  and  had 


274  A  Virginian  Village 

been  a  great  friend  of  the  clergyman  and  his  family. 
A  new  clergyman,  who  was  rich,  had  succeeded  him, 
which  was  a  source  of  regret  to  her,  as  she  said  that 
she  could  no  longer  send  the  parsonage  a  mince  pie 
or  a  turkey,  when  she  was  so  disposed.  She  was 
religious,  as  southern  women  often  are.  The  old 
families  of  her  part  of  the  state  were  as  a  rule  Episco 
palians,  and  she  was  of  that  faith.  In  colonial  times, 
of  course,  that  had  been  the  established  religion. 
An  old  Colonial  planter  in  top  boots  once  got  up  in 
the  Virginia  House  of  Burgesses  and  said  that, 
while  he  had  no  prejudices  against  other  religious 
denominations,  still  he  had  a  feeling  that  the  only 
road  to  Heaven  for  a  gentleman  to  follow  was  the 
Episcopal.  He  no  doubt  spoke  the  Virginia  Colonial 
feeling.  In  travelling  through  certain  parts  of  Vir 
ginia  if  you  find  a  church  of  some  denomination  other 
than  the  Episcopal  which  dates  from  Colonial  times, 
it  is  likely  to  be  out  in  the  country,  three  or  four  miles 
from  a  town.  This  I  have  been  told,  was  because  the 
establishment  in  Colonial  times  would  not  consent 
to  these  churches  being  built  in  the  towns.  Virginia 
has  still  English  eighteenth-century  characteristics 
in  religion  as  in  other  matters.  The  Episcopalians 
of  that  state  have  been  usually  low  church,  as  was  the 
established  church  in  England,  during  the  eighteenth 
century.  But  their  religion  was  not  so  dry  and  dull 
as  that  of  the  English  church  usually  was  at  that  day, 
having  been  to  some  degree  affected  by  the  Wes- 
leyan  revival,  as  indeed  the  whole  South  was.  I 
came  upon  an  example  of  this  lately  in  Virginia. 
I  was  in  an  Episcopal  church,  when  the  Rector  gave 
notice  of  a  series  of  revival  meetings  to  be  held  in 
the  Methodist  church  in  town,  an  incident  unusual 


Virginia  Women  275 

in  an  Episcopal  church.  My  friend's  religion  was  of 
this  evangelical  character.  She  was  emotional  in 
religion  as  in  other  matters,  and  set  much  store  by 
her  religious  emotions.  I  remember  once,  when  I 
had  spoken  of  the  absurdity  of  the  practice  in  some 
churches  of  singing  hymns,  which  are  associated  in 
everybody's  mind  with  certain  tunes,  to  tunes  which 
are  new  and  unfamiliar,  she  said  with  much  feeling, 
"Isn't  that  fiendish?" 

She  had  other  traits  which  were  southern.  She  was 
hospitable,  of  course,  as  was  natural  to  the  daugh 
ter  of  people  who  lived  on  isolated  farms  and  were 
glad  to  be  visited  by  friends,  whom  it  cost  nothing 
in  time  or  expense  to  entertain.  She  managed  her 
farm  successfully,  was  a  perfect  housekeeper,  had  a 
great  knowledge  of  food,  how  the  best  could  be  pro 
cured  and  how  it  should  be  cooked  and  served,  and 
she  watched  every  detail  in  the  management  of  a 
large  house.  And  yet  she  did  all  this  as  if  it  gave 
her  no  great  trouble.  She  was  of  a  large  build,  rather 
heavily  made,  but  very  active  and  nimble  in  her 
movements.  I  used  to  like  to  see  her  moving  about 
the  house  with  short,  quick,  busy  steps,  and  with 
serious  mien.  She  talked  incessantly,  a  characteristic 
which  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  her  abundant  force. 
To  me  it  was  one  of  her  attractions.  "Two  is  no 
company,  and  three  is  company  of  God,"  say  the 
Spaniards,  which  I  think  a  true  proverb.  Three  is 
company  of  God,  because,  if  you  do  not  want  to 
talk,  there  are  two  others  to  keep  the  conversation 
going.  When  there  are  only  two,  you  must  do  your 
share  of  the  talking  or  at  any  rate  of  the  listening. 
But  when  you  were  left  alone  with  this  friend  of 
mine,  there  was  no  need  of  a  third,  for  the  flow  of  her 


276  A  Virginian  Village 

monologue  never  ceased,  but  ran  on  as  easily  as  a 
brook  slips  along  over  pebbles,  you  listening  in  con 
tented  indolence.  Of  course  a  very  frequent  theme 
with  her  was  the  daughter.  She  liked  to  repeat  to 
me  stories,  which  I  liked  to  hear,  of  the  childhood 
of  the  young  girl,  which  showed  her  brightness  of 
mind  and  the  sweetness  of  her  temper.  She  got  a 
great  deal  of  happiness  out  of  this  relation,  but  much 
anxiety  also.  The  future  of  the  girl  was  evidently 
a  source  of  great  concern  to  her,  what  her  life  would 
be,  after  she,  the  mother,  was  no  longer  here  to  pro 
tect  and  defend  her. 

She  was  a  lady,  too;  with  all  her  simplicity  and 
candor  and  warm  and  strong  feeling,  and  her  mental 
and  physical  vigor,  she  was  as  well  bred  a  woman  as 
you  would  meet  in  a  long  journey.  No  women  in  the 
country  excelled  the  best  type  of  southern  women  in 
that  way.  What  a  mother-in-law  she  would  have 
made  for  some  fortunate  young  fellow,  who  had  won 
her  friendship  and  affection;  he  would  have  been 
pretty  well  spoiled.  The  lady  I  have  here  sketched 
was  a  Virginia  woman,  and  was  characteristic  of 
that  country. 

Behind  these  fine  characteristics  of  the  women  of 
Virginia  there  were  certain  physical  facts  which  had 
their  influence  upon  these  women.  Virginia  had 
a  good  climate  and,  as  a  rule,  a  good  soil.  The 
people  lived  an  out-door  life,  a  life  much  like  that 
led  by  English  country  gentlemen.  They  hunted  the 
fox,  they  shot  and  fished.  They  had,  especially 
those  who  lived  in  tidewater  Virginia  and  were  near 
the  Chesapeake  Bay,  as  good  food  as  there  was  to 
be  had  in  the  world.  That  was  the  opinion  at  any 
rate  of  a  certain  very  great  Scottish  gentleman,  Mr. 


Virginia  Women  277 

Edward  Ellice,  who  knew  everything  about  food 
and  many  subjects  besides,  and  who  had  spent 
much  time  in  this  country.  He  was  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Royal  Phelps,  a  fine  old  New  Yorker  whom 
people  of  New  York  whose  memories  go  back  thirty- 
five  years  or  more  will  recall  with  pleasure,  and  who 
lived  in  Sixteenth  Street.  Mr.  Phelps'  daughter 
had  married  Governor  Carroll  of  Maryland,  and  Mr. 
Phelps  was  thus  by  way  of  getting  the  best  of  the 
terrapin,  the  canvas  back  duck,  the  fish  and  the 
oysters,  and  the  many  other  excellent  things  that 
were  to  be  had  in  the  region  of  the  Chesapeake  Bay. 
Mr.  Ellice  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  he  believed 
that  Mr.  Phelps  had  the  best  food  to  be  got  anywhere 
in  the  world.  This  was  the  food  which  tidewater 
Virginia  had  at  its  doors.  Then  they  had  the  negro 
cooks,  who  knew  how  to  prepare  it.  They  had  be 
sides  the  time  and  the  leisure  to  eat  it.  It  was 
natural  that  this  life  and  this  food  should  produce  a 
strong  race,  and  it  did  do  that.  It  was  natural  also 
that  it  should  produce  a  handsome  race.  The  women 
of  Virginia  were  the  descendants  of  the  people  who 
had  lived  this  life  and  had  had  these  advantages. 


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THE    WORKS    OF    SIR   RABINDRANATH    TAGORE 

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Volumes  in  the  Bolpur  Edition 
THE  HUNGRY  STONES  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
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ecstasy,  in  which  the  brutalized  passions  of  the  world  have 
no  place  or  being  .  .  .  the  perfect  union  of  beauty  and  truth 
in  poetry." — Review  of  Reviews. 


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An    Apology    for   Old    Maids   and 
Other  Essays 

BY  HENRY  DWIGHT  SEDGWICK 

Author  of  "Italy  in  the  i3th  Century,"  "The  New 
American  Type,  and  Other  Essays,"  etc. 

$1.50 

The  titles  of  the  nine  essays  which  make  up  this 
volume  are  as  follows:  An  Apology  for  Old  Maids, 
De  Senectute,  The  Religion  of  the  Past,  Credo  Quia 
Possibile,  On  Being  III,  The  House  of  Sorrow,  A  For 
saken  God,  The  Classics  Again,  and  Literature  and 
Cosmopolitanism.  In  spite  of  their  apparent  diver 
sities  these  essays  have  much  in  common — they 
proceed  from  the  same  mood,  they  consider  certain 
serious  aspects  of  life  from  the  same  point  of  view 
and  apply  to  their  several  topics  the  same  set  of 
opinions  and  sentiments.  The  book  is  as  interesting 
a  volume  as  has  recently  been  added  to  the  all  too 
small  literature  of  the  American  essay. 


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Mr.  Britling  Sees  It  Through 

H.  G.  WELLS'  NEW  NOVEL 

$1-50 

"A  powerful,  strong  story.  Has  wonderful  pages  .  .  . 
gems  of  emotional  literature.  .  .  .  Nothing  could  express 
the  whole,  momentous  situation  in  England  and  in  the  United 
States  in  so  few  words  and  such  convincing  tone.  .  .  .  For 
clear  thinking  and  strong  feeling,  the  finest  picture  of  the 
crises  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  world  that  has  yet  been  produced." 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"Not  only  Mr.  Wells'  best  book,  but  the  best  book  so  far 
published  concerning  the  war." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"The  most  thoughtfully  and  carefully  worked-out  book 
Mr.  Wells  has  given  us  for  many  a  year.  ...  A  veritable 
cross-section  of  contemporary  English  life  .  .  .  admirable, 
full  of  color  and  utterly  convincing." — New  York  Times. 

"A  war  epic.  .  .  .  To  read  it  is  to  grasp,  as  perhaps  never 
before,  the  state  of  affairs  among  those  to  whom  war  is  the 
actual  order  of  the  day.  Impressive,  true,  tender,  ...  in 
finitely  moving  and  potent." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"For  the  first  time  we  have  a  novel  which  touches  the 
life  of  the  last  two  years  without  impertinence.  This  is  a 
really  remarkable  event,  and  Mr.  Wells'  book  is  a  proud 
achievement.  .  .  .  The  free  sincerity  of  this  book,  with  its 
unfailing  distinction  of  tone,  is  beautiful  ...  a  creation 
with  which  we  have  as  yet  seen,  in  this  country  at  least, 
nothing  whatever  to  compare." — London  Times. 


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The  Brook  Kerith 

BY  GEORGE  MOORE 


$1-50 


This  novel  deals  with  the  life  of  Jesus.  As  a  vivid  pres 
entation  of  contemporary  life  and  thought  and  a  striking 
commentary  on  the  New  Testament  narratives,  it  is  a  book 
of  real  historical  value.  The  author  has  presented  a  most 
revolutionary  interpretation  of  the  founder  of  Christianity, 
especially  as  regards  his  own  view  of  his  mission  and  doc 
trines,  setting  forth  a  convincing  human  story  of  Jesus'  life 
in  its  actual  setting. 

"In  'The  Brook  Kerith,'  George  Moore  employs  his  finest 
art  in  an  audacious  way.  He  evokes  ...  as  does  Flaubert 
in  '  Salammbo,'  a  vanished  land,  a  vanished  civilization  .  .  . 
in  a  style  that  is  artistically  beautiful.  Never  has  he  written 
with  such  sustained  power,  intensity  and  mobility  of  phras 
ing,  such  finely  tempered,  modulating  prose." — New  York 
Sun. 

"He  vitalizes  Jesus,  Paul,  Joseph  and  all  his  charac 
ters  .  .  .  touches  the  furtherest  imaginative  reaches  ...  in 
many  respects  even  more  plausible  than  the  accepted  story." 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"A  compelling  novel  ...  a  remarkable  literary  achieve 
ment  .  .  .  nothing  George  Moore  has  written  has  such  sus 
tained  beauty  and  dignity." — The  Bookman. 


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